Tinderbox
by Anne Louise 2000
Summary: Sherlock may be a great detective, but he is fairly clueless when it comes to understanding Molly, John or even himself. As the three decompress in Molly's flat after their grand adventure, truths are told, desires revealed and choices made. Enjoy the final chapter of Tinderbox: Almost Persuaded. This is a revised version of Tinderbox to be followed by the sequel: Sweet Fire.
1. Loss, Nuts and Amputation

Tinderbox

Chapter 1: Loss, Nuts and Amputation

_Walk on through the wind; Walk on though the rain_

_Tho' your dreams be tossed and blown. _

_Walk on, walk on_

_-Rodgers and Hammerstein_

It was graceful, really, when he thought about it. Every part was graceful: The step, the fall, the- The hit. Only- The hit made John ill, and he had been ill too often, so he tried not to think about it: One time each day was his limit. One glorious, horrible second or two of Sherlock stepping, flying, falling, smashing- Ohh. Here, John would wrench his mind away, do his breathing: Shoulders back, chin up, one more breath and forward march. He had just forward marched into the toilet of the veteran's hall where he stood now, staring at his own white face and filling the flimsy Styrofoam cup so he could take his happy pills. Group was in a minute. Must pull himself together.

XXXXX

In the tiny kitchen of Molly Hooper's tiny flat, Sherlock was waiting for his cookies to be done.

Life was tolerable in the kitchen; otherwise, it was abominable: He could not play his violin at night or in the morning; he had to sleep on a repulsive sofa guest bed that tucked into a repulsive sofa; he had to let his hair and beard grow, and they itched; he had to wear jeans and a wretched black hoody (he hated jeans and wretched black hoodies); he had only a miniscule space for his things in the linen closet, so he could not have his lab equipment. His saving grace was Molly's extensive collection of high end kitchen tools and devices, most of which were unused: Molly rarely cooked. Apparently, they were gifts from her mother and grandmother; when asked why she didn't get rid of them, her inexplicable response was: They were gifts from her mother and grandmother. When _he_ used them, however, she fussed. She was going to fuss about these cookies. He knew it.

XXXXX

Take-away sack in hand, bag over her shoulder, Molly spent the lift ride thinking of Clyde, the mellow orange tabby she had owned since she was fourteen. Clyde died last year, and, strangely, Molly found herself thinking of him often these past six weeks: How he would rub against her legs and purr when she came home; cuddle with her at night- Rather unlike her current flatmate.

The lift doors opened and she stepped out into the most wonderful scent wafting down the corridor. Ah! She wandered to her flat door and was shifting her bags to get at her key when her mobile rang, and-So many things!-she shifted her bag and sack again, found and answered her mobile, dropped her keys- She managed to come in without stumbling and flung everything but the mobile on the kitchen bar. Sherlock, waiting by the door with a fork, pounced on the take-away sack, pausing only to ask, "Who is it?"

Molly mouthed, "Mrs. Hudson." then spoke into the mobile, "Yes, not since the service. How have you been?" As she listened, she noticed Sherlock eating from the carton. Excellent! She had had luck with Chinese; he didn't eat enough, he was too thin-Mrs. Hudson asked a question.

"Oh yes, lovely. Not too many friends, well none, really. I wish I could have gone with you and John to the gravestone-… Oh? … Yes, I see." Molly looked at Sherlock. "Well, I suppose I could. What sort of lab equipment?" He glanced up. "I have a half day tomorrow, I could come by around noon. How many boxes? … Okay… Oh. Oh, dear, that must have been a messy job." No specimens in her flat. About that, she was firm: No fingers, no eyeballs, no intestines. "Yes, he could be- Quite." Sherlock was smirking; she forced her attention entirely to the mobile.

"I don't know, they were saying such terrible things. They did clear him." It was true: Jim Moriarty had been proven to be a criminal, not an actor; his network was weakened but active, so the charade had to continue.

"Yes, I know, too young. Far too young." Sherlock was watching keenly. "Yes, he must have. So alone. … No, no. Oh, how could you have known? Nobody knew. He wouldn't say anything, would he?" Molly felt herself tearing up. "Yes, we all wish we could have, you mustn't blame yourself. You did the best you could. We all did." Wiping her eyes, "Poor John. I feel the worst for him."

"John's fine." Sherlock snapped.

Molly turned away, covering the mouthpiece. "Terrible. Just awful." Ah. Mrs. Hudson was calming; silver linings and all. "Yes, well there is that. … Right, then. Until tomorrow." Molly closed the mobile and wiped her eyes once more.

"You know, I didn't actually die."

"I'm aware of that." She edged by him to fetch a fork and bowl. When she returned, he was staring, frowning. He glanced at her:

"Bad day?"

It took Molly a moment-"Me?" He nodded. "No. Not particularly." Wondering, she opened the second carton- Oh. "Mrs. Hudson was upset. I was being sympathetic."

Nodding slowly, "Oh. Sympathetic. Ah." And, shrugging slightly, he turned his attention to scraping out the last bits of his dinner.

Shaking her head, Molly served herself and took a stealthy assessment: Walls? No footprints today. Okay. Countertops? Clear. Good. Kitchen bar? Oh. She spied a tray of cookies balanced on a pair of oven mitts at the end. That was where the scent-Oh. Oh, no. "You've been baking."

"Yes." Sherlock binned his empty carton and turned to gaze at the cookies.

"What's in them?"

"45 milligrams of nicotine each. Introduced in the butter." He removed one and held it on his palm, smelling it. "Less than two would shut the average person's nervous system down entirely, but one would work for someone with elevated levels of nicotine."

Nicotine? -Oh. "The woman in the morgue last night."

"Not a stroke. Nicotine. Oh_ thank you _Sherlock! We were _all at sea_! Oh-"

"We don't know she was deliberately poisoned. It could have been an accident."

"Nicotine. Undetectable and delicious." Sherlock broke open the cookie and smelled the interior.

Molly peered over. Oh, for- "You put nuts in them."

"You said the she had nut cookies in her stomach. Besides, I like nuts."

"I do too, but it seems rather a waste of nuts." Molly stood and fetched a zip top bag and the bleach. When she returned, he was putting a crumb in his mouth, rolling it lovingly on his tongue and then: Swallowed with an expression of pure bliss. For God's sake! She snapped open the bag. "Done with them?"

"Yes."

He took the bag and, looking away, held it open. She dumped in the cookies, added bleach and kneaded the mass with her palms and fingers: Nasty, nasty, death sweets- Sherlock was wincing. Oh. She zipped and binned the bag then returned to her dinner. "Sherlock, you guessed she was a gardener-"

"I deduced she was a gardener. The callus pattern on her hands was unmistakable."

"Gardeners use nicotine based weed killers and insecticide. And she used the patch."

"She wouldn't absorb a fatal dose that way-" Reflecting "-unless she ate a patch-? No, no. It would have taken three. It had to be someone who knew her, knew her habits. Someone who baked. We know nothing more about her?"

"I haven't access to the full police file."

Sherlock scowled. "I can't build cases without data." Sighing. "When are we going to St. Bart's? The flat is tidy."

Really. Glancing around: Kitchen, okay. Living room, ugh. She lay down her fork and trudged over: The sofa's pillows were askew; the white crocheted throw bunched on one arm, and Brian, the hitherto undiscovered variety of Blattella asahinai Sherlock had found on the roof, was in his jam jar on the seat cushion. When the sofa was straightened, "Odd one tonight. I don't know if you'll be able to help."

"What's the case?"

Taking Brian with her, she returned to the bar and dropped a bit of noodle and veg into his jar. "It's a thumb."

"A thumb? Just a thumb? By itself?"

"By itself." Molly glanced at him. "A dog found it: A dismembered thumb. No one had been admitted to the local hospitals or clinics with a missing thumb. The police checked the area with cadaver dogs: No other body parts, no bodies. The odd part is that it had been hacked off with a hatchet or cleaver; usually these are table saw accidents. Oh! And the victim had been exposed to carbon monoxide prior to dismemberment."

"Carbon monoxide."

"Quite a lot of it, but it didn't kill him; the thumb wasn't glowing. Our victim could be alive." Oh, no. He was fetching his hoody and moving to the front door. Quickly, she took a bite of dinner.

"Let's go."

"I'm not done!"

"Eat a protein bar." He stepped out.

That-! Scowling, Molly put her bowl in the refrigerator, took a protein bar from the box on the refrigerator, grabbed her bag and coat and followed him out. Never allowed to eat!

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	2. Tonight When We Chase the Severed Thumb

Tinderbox

Chapter 2: Tonight When We Chase the Severed Thumb

_It's my life and it's my wife_  
_-Lou Reed_

Group was the same dreary crap it always was: Old clothes, stubble, moaning. They sat in their circled chairs with their Styrofoam cups of coffee; tired looking social worker nodding at them, so calm and supportive: An airline hostess. A funeral director. A-

"How about you, John?"

"Yes?"

"How are things?"

Things. How were things? "Well," Things. "It's been two nights without nightmares; probably just the new meds, but it's nice to get some sleep." The boys nodded. They knew, of course.

"And how are things with Harry?"

"Well, she's- She's still sober, as far as I know. I haven't started drinking, so I guess that's good. I suppose if she's not going to drink living with me these past six weeks, she's in it for the long haul. Oh-!" Suddenly, there were better things. "Here's a bit of a bright spot. Unexpected, actually. I've been offered a job."

"Ah! A job! Tell us about it."

"Well, they rang me yesterday, out of the blue. I wasn't looking for anything. It's part time, very part time: An emergency room physician. The director or someone had followed my blog. He knew I was credentialed and now that I seemed to be-" Things again "-available…"

One of the boys piped up, "Are you sure it's a good idea?"

Bastard. "Well- Well, one thing I learned with my- my friend, the one who-" Yes. They bloody well knew which one. John took a deep breath and continued,_ "_I tend to do better in- in tight situations." His heart started racing as he remembered his last tight situation: Sherlock falling, Sherlock- John stopped himself. Bright side. Bright things-"Anyway, I could use the money."

Then they all dove in like sharks in a frenzy: "Isn't it a lot like combat? Don't want to re-traumatize yourself. Stressful places, emergency rooms; anything could happen."

Shut up, shut up! "Maybe, maybe-" Another deep breath and gritted teeth "-I'm rather useless now." Black, cold, sinking-Dammit, dammit-Chin up, shoulders back- Pull it together, Watson! "I could use the money." Bastards.

XXXXX

The grey thumb's cut end had been gnawed by rodents. Sherlock turned it with forceps, peering through the magnifying glass. He glanced at Molly standing with pen and notepad ready. "Twenty-four hours."

"Yes." She flipped through the documentation. "Severed approximately twenty-four hours ago; found less than twelve hours after dismemberment."

"Okay. You are looking for a right handed small appliance repairman or electrician, male between thirty and fifty. Medium to large build. This is a left thumb, you can see no callus on the interior where he would hold his pen; that says right handed; however, there are calluses elsewhere. It's not broad or thickly callused enough to be a laborer, but this _is_ a man who uses manual tools, not an office worker. Could be an auto mechanic, but there is neither oil nor grease under the nail nor in the ridges. Here-" Sherlock indicated the tip "-note the indentation, the heavy callus down the middle. It's from holding wires as he works. This is a small appliance repairman or electrician." Sherlock peered closer. "What was under his nail?"

Consulting her chart, "Wood splinters, polyurethane and ash."

"Wood splinters, polyurethane and…ash."

"The polyurethane was the type used in spray foam insulation. And not wood ash. Some other material."

Sherlock reflected for a few moments then threw down the forceps and pulled off his gloves. "Where was this found?"

XXXXX

Not forty minutes later, Sherlock and Molly, carrying her newly approved, rather bulky evidence case, were on the corner of a littered street: Single family homes built eighty to one hundred years ago. At one time, it may have been genteel; some of the houses were well proportioned with elegant structural touches. Now, however, the pavement was cracked and weeds abundant. On the corner opposite, a few young men loitered, smoking and drinking in the waning light. Molly eyed them warily: They were edgy, tough looking. While she had heard that Sherlock could handle himself-A boxer-she didn't quite believe it. How could someone who didn't eat fight properly? "They checked all the houses right around here. No reports of disturbances."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm sure a police investigation would have been well received around here." He stared down the street. "Someone's away." Molly followed his gaze: Along the pavement, all the houses had their bins out for collection save one, halfway down the block. Sherlock started toward it, and Molly trailed after him, the evidence case thumping at her side.

The house they were approaching looked lonely and sad. Smaller than the others, it was a peeling, sagging, unadorned two story rectangle, the narrow end facing the street. At one point, it was white, but age and London fog had turned it grey: Old before its time. Poor thing. There were steps leading to the front door; on the side, a set of slanting basement doors were secured with a large padlock. Sherlock led them to the other side, where the bin was knocked over on a pile of colorful rubbish. Molly was intrigued by the rubbish, a bit of brightness in the gloom, but after a brief glance, Sherlock turned back to the house, staring at the window set in the middle of the side, a giant eye, the bottom edge slightly over his head. As Molly watched, he seized the bin, upended it and climbed on top, examining and smelling-Smelling?-the windowsill. _"_This is it." he muttered.

"This is what?"

Sherlock glanced down. "This is it. This is where he lost his thumb. Not even you clean the outsides of your windowsills." He tapped: The center of the windowsill edge was far cleaner than the ends_._

Molly sighed. How could she have missed-_ "_How? How did it happen?"

"He was hanging-" Sherlock demonstrated "-on the sill, trying to escape someone inside. Given the length of the gouge, someone with a heavy cleaver." Abruptly, Sherlock jumped down and began to rummage through the pile of rubbish. Several times, Molly opened her mouth to ask, only to close it again. Finally, she lowered the evidence case to the ground and removed the camera: If nothing else, this was an excellent opportunity to practice. Carefully, she climbed onto the bin and took a picture of the gash. From below, Sherlock called, "Smell it. It's been scoured with bleach. Wonderful for destroying blood evidence." She did-Oh! As she stood blinking, Sherlock suddenly ordered, "Molly. Get down."

"What is it?" Molly clambered off.

"Dogs upset bins with raw meat in them." Sherlock turned the bin over and peered inside, using his penlight. _"_Ah!" A smear of blood on one side. "When the thumb was cut, it landed in here."

Looking over his shoulder, Molly snapped a picture. "That's not much blood."

"There's not much blood in a thumb. Besides, all sorts of vermin have been at this bin." Sherlock stepped to the pavement and began scanning it in small, evenly spaced arcs. Molly stared-Okay-then removed a swab set from her case and returned to the bin. He could look at the ground; she would document. Documenting was important.

Sample taken, Molly faced the jumble of rubbish, camera in hand. Artsy rubbish: Thread, a ripped unstuffed teddy bear doll body, shards of a large vase glazed in slashes of bright color, empty jars of glaze, paper towels with glaze on them, dark brown dirt, ash, household dust, crushed empty bottles of bleach-Six of them!-wax, bits of cork. She shot them all.

"Are you making a scrap book?" Sherlock was glaring, hands on hips. "The flashing is rather annoying."

"I'm collecting evidence!" At this, Sherlock's face grew blank, and he returned to the pavement. Doggedly, Molly turned over a crushed bleach bottle and found-Oh. Hm. Probably nothing. Still; she bent closer and took an extra picture-

"Ah!" Sherlock was squatting, peering at something through his glass.

_"_What is it?"

"Blood! An elongated drop! He came this way, and quickly." He found another spot; then another!

Oh! Shouldering the evidence case, Molly hurried after him. They approached an intersection, and while Sherlock continued forward, she paused-There to the left! In the middle of the zebra crossing! "Sherlock!" Sherlock, on the next block, raced back. They found another spot across the road on the corner; another a few steps forward; then: Nothing. Halfway down the block: Still nothing; the trail of breadcrumbs, gone. Frowning, Sherlock turned and plodded back to the corner; Molly followed, her case swinging.

At the last drop, they stopped and Molly set her evidence case down. Sherlock scanned the area, saying,_"_This is where it ends. Why did he come this way? Look. There's a shop that way, he could have gotten help."

Shrugging, "He had been poisoned. Perhaps he was disoriented-?"

"No. A disoriented man would have gone straight, continued his forward momentum. This victim changed his course purposefully: Came here. Why? What was here?" He considered the small block of flats on the corner. Molly joined him, admiring it: Elegant, like a cake. Containing about eight flats, the building was similar in design to the nicer homes in the neighborhood, but was better maintained, cleaner; it had been cared for just a bit more. Suddenly Sherlock moved to the front door. "Look." A smear of blood on the edge of the outer entryway, about the height where a man might rest his hand.

"He went in?"

"Evidently, yet, how? It is unlikely he lived here, and there's no blood on the buttons to buzz him in."

"Sherlock, look." A For Let sign in the window. "A flat went up for let yesterday. Perhaps they were moving out and someone blocked a door open."

"Perhaps. It is a way in." He entered the number into his mobile.

"In?"

"Oh, hi! Are you the agent handling the flat on Carson? … Ah, good. Well, the wife went by today and saw your notice. She's quite interested. We must see it. … Now. Can we see it now? … Saturday? That won't do. She's rather anxious. Here, I shall put her on."

No. No! Shaking her head-Shan't!–but Sherlock pushed the mobile into her hand, and, stiffly, "Yes. … Yes. Quite interested. … Questions. Do I have questions-?" Molly gave Sherlock a panicked glance.

He mouthed, "Rent!"

Right. "What is the rent?... Oh!... That's-that's good. We must see it. Immediately. … Saturday? Nothing sooner? _…_ Well, has there been interest in it? … Oh, good. All right, then. Saturday morning at ten. Thank- Our names-?" She glanced again at Sherlock, who shrugged. "Mark and Heidi Jacobson. … Yes, thank you." Molly ended the call and handed the mobile back. "The previous tenants moved out last night."

"Okay, but that doesn't get us in." Sherlock again peered in the entryway.

"Why must we get in?"

"A man could be bleeding to death in there. Do you have one of those throwaway phones?"

He meant the ones they were to use exclusively for contacting Mycroft in the case of an emergency. Molly took one from her bag and handed it to him. "Are you calling Mycroft?"

"Hardly." He opened the mobile and dialed 999. "Oh _God!_ You've _got_ to help me! It's my brother! He says he's put a _bomb_ in the building on Carson Street! The block of flats on the corner- … Yes, of _course_ I believe him! He was a demolitions expert from Afghanistan! He's so _angry!_ Oh! I have to go!" Ending the call, Sherlock wiped the mobile clean and dropped it down the storm drain; then scooped up the evidence case, handed it to Molly and, taking her by the arm, turned her back down the street. "Let us return to the other house rather quickly."

Stumbling, Molly could manage only, "That-! That-!"

"…will instigate a search that may save a man's life. It won't be the last illegal thing we do tonight."

Oh God.

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	3. An Infected Mind

Tinderbox

Chapter 3: An Infected Mind

_"If seven maids with seven mops_ s_wept it for half a year,_  
_Do you suppose," the Walrus said,_ _"That they could get it clear?"_  
_"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,_ a_nd shed a bitter tear._

_–Lewis Carroll_

Back at the house, the sun had set, and the street lamp was out causing deep shadows. Sherlock was again on the upended bin, trying to see inside, but a shade was down. He jumped off and turned to study the front door. What was this? Heavy steel security door with grade one stainless steel multipoint vertical deadbolt, fairly new. Quite a bit of security for a ramshackle house. Sherlock felt in his pocket for his picks.

"You don't know it's deserted. Someone could be in there." Molly. She had a point.

"One way to find out." He kicked aside some rubbish and picked up a dirty liquor bottle with a few tablespoons of amber liquid in it: Cheap whiskey, perfect. He splashed it on his collar and shirt, pulled up his hood, lurched up the steps, and slapped the door. "BILL! HEY!" Slap! "OPEN UP IN THERE! C'MON! BILL!" Slap! Slap!

"HEY! SHUT YOUR GOB!"

Who was that? Sherlock staggered down the steps, searching: There! A watery eyed man leaning out of the neighboring house's upper story window, flask in hand, television flashing behind him. Carpenter, by the width of his thumbs. Between jobs or out of work given the dust-free state of his hair and clothing. Sherlock slouched against the banister. "WHERE'S BILL!?"

"THEY'RE GONE, YOU IDIOT! Cleared out!"

Really. Hm. "WHAT!? WHEN!" Sherlock tripped forward a few steps. "When?"

The helpful neighbor took a dribbling swig from his flask. "Last night wasn't it. It were an awful row, screamin' and cryin.' They packed up that meat wagon and were gone not two hours later."

Meat wagon? "He owes me FIFTY QUID!"

"Hard luck!" and the window shut. Good.

XXXXX

Molly, crouched behind the house, peered out and watched Sherlock walk stiffly in front of the empty house. Where was he going? She waited uneasily as sirens blared in the distance. Suddenly, a nose wrinkling stench: Whiskey. Sherlock was picking the back door; he must have circled round. He noticed her and gazed for a second or two, then, "You can be the look out." The lock clicked and he entered.

Larceny! Well, criminal trespass! Molly peered back around the corner. Emergency vehicles were screaming and groups of people wandering up the street. She could be caught out here; did he consider that? Lookout indeed! Just then a police car crept past, flashing a spotlight. Molly stood resolutely and climbed the back stair, hauling the evidence case.

Inside, Sherlock was standing by the back door with his penlight, looking from it to another door facing it-a basement door?- and frowning. Other than the penlight, the house was pitch black and rather forbidding; however, now that she was here, she may as well practice establishing the layout. Taking a small torch from her case, Molly began: To the left was a toilet; continuing round: A walk-in pantry, empty-Nice space!-the kitchen with a small table and three chairs. The house had a central enclosed stairway facing the front door; probably a parallel stairway to the basement.

On the other side was the living room: The shade covered window was evenly flanked by an empty bookcase and a small table; single oversized, over upholstered chairs in the middle of the back and stairwell walls; over both hung large pictures: Slashes of bright color exploding on the canvas, like, Molly realized, the broken vase outside. They were crude, clumsy, even; yet she found herself moved by them, saddened. Perhaps it was the contrast between the paintings and the austerity of the room. Molly flashed her torch around: The few pieces of furniture were old and cheap but very clean. In fact, she looked carefully, there was no dust or dirt in the entire room. A chill raced down her back: It was peculiar, somehow; creepy. She was relieved when Sherlock's penlight approached, presumably with him attached. "Sherlock, it's so dark."

"The windows have black out shades on them. I shall open this one, extinguish your torch." Turning off his penlight, Sherlock rolled up the shade; then turned the latch, smoothly opening the window. Molly started: Mustn't touch! Prints! She lugged her case to the windowsill and removed two pair of gloves, handing one to him.

"This is a crime scene." She pointedly put on a pair.

Absently, Sherlock pulled on the gloves. "If he came from the basement, why did he come this way? Why not-?" He stared at the back door, then the window. "Why not-?"

"He was held in the basement?"

"Obviously." Quickly, Sherlock scanned the room. "We must see who lived here." He went to the front stairwell and climbed.

Fine. Must document. Molly removed her camera and notebook from her case and virtuously took pictures, flashing in the immaculate room.

XXXXX

The upper floor was as dark as the lower. With his penlight, Sherlock noted bedrooms on either side of the house: The master suite to the right; the second bedroom to the left, adjoining a hall bathroom. He stepped to the master suite doorway, turned on the light and assessed: A single window covered with a black-out shade; a small bureau precisely centered on one wall; a double bed with bare mattress centered just as exactly on an adjacent wall; a double closet opened and empty save one brightly colored dress; a door to the bath; nothing else. No dust. No dirt. No hairs. Nothing.

Sherlock crossed to the closet. The dress hung in the center of the bar: Modern cut, cheap polyester fabric, crooked seams, crooked hem, no tags- A noise behind him: Molly was kneeling next to the bed, peering under it with her torch, the evidence case on the floor beside her. As he watched, she withdrew, glanced at him then away, running a hand over her hair. "Sherlock, there's no dust anywhere." She put away her torch.

"Yes." She noticed. Hm.

"Tops of baseboards, under the bed, behind the bed, nowhere."

Sherlock nodded. "And with two hours to pack, I doubt there had been time to clean." Molly blinked, then took up her notebook and began to write. "What are you writing?" Sherlock stepped behind her and stared at the page. Absolutely illegible!

"I was just thinking…"

"How refreshing. Go on."

"I was wondering who might be so clean." Molly read: "Military, religious order, nurse, housekeeper. Some notions..." She shrugged.

Not bad. Sherlock squatted next to her. "Someone with obsessive compulsive disorder. Did you notice the furniture downstairs?"

"It was odd."

"Each piece was placed precisely at the center of each wall; no consideration for aesthetics or functionality. Sitting in one of those chairs, your tea would be on the table half-way across the room. She had to divide the space exactly; she was compelled."

"She?"

"It is more prevalent in women. Besides, men don't arrange furniture. Not when women are around."

Abruptly, Molly stood, turned to the closet and studied the dress._"_Sherlock, this dress is home made. No tags."

Ah! A brain! Sherlock joined her. "Yes. Interesting. The only thing she left behind. What does that tell you?"

"She didn't like it?"

"Apparently not. If we really want to know about them, the dustbin is the place to look." None in the room; must be in the bathroom. Sherlock went to fetch it. When he returned, Molly had her pen and notebook ready. _"_She has long grey hair; clips her nails, so does he; he uses an electric shaver; she doesn't wear polish. No make-up. Quite the Spartan. Unmedicated Spartan: No medication bottles, cotton batting, or chemist's bags." Molly finished her notes and reached for the dustbin. When he handed it to her, she knelt with it, opened her evidence case and removed evidence bags and tweezers. "You're taking samples? John never took samples."

"John didn't have an evidence case."

"No, he didn't." Sherlock left for the hall bath.

XXXXX

When Molly finished with the samples, she came to the hall bath doorway and looked in: Sherlock was holding the dustbin; and the room-Molly's mouth dropped open-was an absolute disaster! Dirty, dusty, bits of the vanity on the floor, and the whole area dim: A light bulb out. And a dripping showerhead. And-! Sherlock was looking at her. "Filthy!" she declared and slung her evidence case to the ground.

"Yes. This is someone else's bath." Sherlock held the bin out to her. "What can you tell me about her?"

Her turn. Okay. Molly accepted the bin._ "_Let's see." A snarl of hair. "She has long reddish hair and-" Bottle "-dyes it." Smell that acetone! There: Cotton balls stained red. "She wears red nail polish- Oh, well, she did wear red nail polish. She seems to take it off on a regular basis; could have changed the color." Molly considered the balls uncertainly.

Sherlock stepped closer and peered in. "Did you find an empty red polish bottle?"

Oh. Molly searched quickly. "No."

"Any other hues on the cotton balls?"

"No."

"Chances are overwhelming that she still has red nails."

Of course. "I suppose so." Feeling doltish, she dug further._ "_I'm not seeing any clippings."

"She files."

Was he sneering? No, his face was blank. "Right. Of course." Last thing. She reached in and lifted out pads stained with make-up. Ah! "She wears make-up. Lots of make-up." There!

Sherlock bent over her outstretched hand and smelled the pads, inhaling deeply. "Cheap make-up." He edged by her and headed for the second bedroom.

Oh, idiot- She could still feel his breath on her fingers. Molly sighed, then knelt with the dustbin and reached for her evidence case.

XXXXX

Sherlock turned on the light of the second bedroom: The light fixture was cracked; dirt, dust and hair had collected in the corners and along the walls, as in the bath; the single bed still contained bedding, unmade; the closet doors were open and the closet empty, as were two additional clothes racks; a small bureau set haphazardly against one wall, the drawers pulled out and strewn on the floor, again as in the bath; a small bookcase face down on the floor and paperback books lying about; and, in the corner, a full dustbin. Ah! He squatted beside it, searching: Crumpled sketches of dresses and teddy bear costumes, abstract designs in pastels. Okay. Now the books: Romances with lurid covers, the titles in Czech. Czech-? Hm. Sherlock flipped through one, noting water damage on the bottom end. Curious. Another had similar damage. Bather-

"She reads them in the bath." Molly, behind him, set down her case with a thud.

"Obviously."

Molly was staring, mouth open. She seemed to do that frequently. "Sherlock, this is as bad as the bath." She picked up a drawer and examined it. "Why did she-?"

Must he do all the work? "She was in a rush, so she opened a bin liner, inserted the end of a drawer and-" Sherlock demonstrated dumping it.

"Oh, of course." Molly looked around. "What a mess."

"Yes. What does that say about her?"

"Terrible housekeeper. And had a lot of things, a lot of clothes. Even with that packing method, she left a lot behind." Molly focused on the romances-

"Yes." Sherlock dropped the books and lifted the dustbin, showing her the sketches. "Did you notice the bear body outside? This is our seamstress and artist, and, judging from the vase and glaze bottles outside, a potter in many ways. So." He gazed at Molly. "How were they connected, our pottering artist and our OCD couple? You see everything, now reason from what you see."

She took a deep breath. "Tenant?"

"More than that. She was making them clothing, and they were hanging her art on the wall."

"Family member." She frowned- "But not daughter."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Why not?"

Instead of responding, she stared straight ahead, frowning. He pictured ropes of humming neurons, sparks flashing in the synapses; or-she was shaking her head-not so much. "The DNA will show definitively-"

"Use your brain, Molly! Don't be timid in drawing your inferences."

Slowly, "Her rooms are so dirty."

"They wouldn't have raised her to be so slovenly. And-?"

"And then, the dress-"

"Yes!" Ah!

"The wife didn't like it."

Sherlock nodded. "Too loud, too gaudy for a Spartan. A daughter would know that."

Molly seemed to relax for a moment; then her expression changed. "They didn't like her."

"Yes." He watched her carefully. "How do you know?"

She glanced round the room. "So filthy."

Come now! "Molly, look." He pointed. "Cracked light fixture. Dripping shower in the bath. Their rooms are in perfect order, suggesting he took care of things. Her rooms are a shambles, suggesting they didn't care or-"

"She could have banned them from her rooms."

"Either way, things were tense." Enough. Sherlock turned to the door.

Behind him, Molly called, "Sherlock, what language is this?" He looked back. She was holding one of the romances and staring at the title.

"Czech." As he watched, she seized her pen and notebook, and started writing. Sherlock frowned. "You're writing again. What are you writing?"

Molly finished, then_:_ "Well…first, where would you get these?" She indicated the romances, and looked at Sherlock, who looked back. Molly continued, "Right. So then, she's an immigrant?" Again, he held his tongue. "Immigrants have papers, records of who they are and where they live. Perhaps if we asked Mycroft-"

"That did occur to me Molly. Mycroft is a resource of last resort." Sherlock turned again to the door. "I'm going to the basement." Although- At the head of the stairway, Sherlock paused and glanced back- Although, where _would_ you get Czech romances? Hm.

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	4. Down the Rabbit Hole

Tinderbox

Chapter 4: Down the Rabbit Hole

_Please take me along as you slide on down._  
_-Donald Fagan_

Like the rest of the house, the basement was dark. Sherlock found the light at the top of the open stairway and illuminated the space: Windowless, unfinished, clean. To the left were four steps leading to the double slanting doors; to the right, a large wooden structure; in between, a small unplugged electric kiln. Nothing else.

Sherlock descended, observing the structure: One hundred fifty centimeters across, two meters long and two meters high; made of rough lumber, nailed together; three holes down the center of the top, each fifteen centimeters across; a rectangular hole in the back with a strutted shelf on the bottom, as though to support a heavy piece of equipment; a wide, open doorway in the front with bolt holes on either side, suggesting it once contained door with a latch. Taking out his penlight, Sherlock entered: The inside was lined with spray foam insulation, approximately ten centimeters thick. On the lower left front corner, the insulation had been pulled off; the wood dented with heel impressions, and the slats pried out then returned, so the nails sat loosely in their holes. By pushing, Sherlock could create a space wide enough to crawl through. Ah!

"Sherlock? What is this?" Molly, in the structure's doorway, dropped her evidence case and peered inside.

"Homemade walk-in cooler. And kill chamber. It's what he was escaping. Look." He pointed to the disturbed corner: "Polyurethane foam insulation." The dents: "Wood splinters."

"Ah! And the ash-" Molly went to the kiln and lifted the lid. "Sherlock! It's all in pieces."

Curious. Sherlock joined her. The coils were unscrewed and hanging_._ "He didn't finish." Why would-? He pictured the scene: The repair man had-Pop! Pop! Flashing! "Molly! Stop!" She lowered the camera, and Sherlock exhaled, folding his hands. "Okay. Let's go through it. The kiln breaks so they call a repairman. He comes and starts the job, but before he is able to finish, they try to kill him. Why?" He stared at Molly, who stared back. Nothing? "Perhaps he saw something he wasn't supposed to see."

Molly gasped. "Drugs! You manufacture ecstasy in the cold! _That's _why they had a cooler!"

No. No…Why not? No, because there was nothing outside. But these people, fanatically clean. Unlikely, then, but perhaps. Oh, she was looking at him. "Perhaps." Sherlock returned to the walk-in_. "_They put him in there and pumped in-"

"Car exhaust. Usually." Molly joined him. "They take a hose and put one end in the exhaust pipe of a car, then run it inside...through there-" she pointed to the slanting doors of the basement _"_-and feed it in the walk-in…somehow."

Sherlock stepped inside and looked up at the holes. "Through here. But that wouldn't be their primary purpose, what were the holes-?" He stared, but nothing suggested itself. He glanced again at Molly, also staring, also offering nothing. Sherlock sighed, moving on. "It would have taken planning: The hose, preparing the hole- He was not meant to leave here alive."

"No. I suppose not."

Okay. "Based on the thumb, the repairman had a medium to large build; generally repairmen are fairly strong. How did they get him in there?"

"They had a cleaver. They could have had a gun."

"Yes."

Molly frowned. "But then why not cut him or shoot him?"

Sherlock looked at her. "Why not?"

A pause. "The noise might have attracted the neighbors?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Still doing all the work. "In this neighborhood? No. Molly, when happens when you cut or shoot someone? Think of our Spartan. What would she avoid at all costs?"

"The mess."

"Rivers of blood. The horror." Sherlock turned to the disturbed corner. "He is trapped in here, but before he succumbs, he is able to tear and kick his way out. He goes-" Sherlock walked to the stairs "-up the stairs, pursued by someone with a cleaver." He climbed.

XXXXX

Up again. Of course. With an effort, Molly shouldered her evidence case and followed. At the top, Sherlock opened the door outward, "Ah! This is why he didn't go out the back door." and flicked off the light, plunging the stairway into darkness. Molly grasped the railing, feeling sudden vertigo.

"Why?"

_"_It's what he could see." Sherlock stepped out, allowing her up. _"_The back door is hidden behind the opened basement door; the obvious view is to the living room."

"He was disoriented."

"Yes. So he came this way-" Molly followed him to the living room window_ "_-opened the window, or perhaps it was open. He climbed out and was hanging by his left arm-" Sherlock considered the gouge on the windowsill. Molly, eager for the evening to end, boosted her case onto the other part of the windowsill, put away her camera and notebook then stood quietly, waiting. In the silence, the sound of a key turning in the front door was tremendous. Oh-!

Sherlock turned swiftly for the back, waving for Molly to follow. She grabbed wildly at the case, and knocked it-Crash!-outside! No! Scrambling back, she hid next the oversized chair on the inner wall as-Bam!-the front door flew open and a man burst into the living room, yelling-

"WHO'S THERE!"

XXXXX

Idiot! Idiot case! Czech accent-? Interesting. Sherlock, by the basement door, waited three seconds then peered round. The man was facing the window: Heavily built, in his early fifties, short military haircut, wearing non-descript, dark clothing, and holding-Oh-a long narrow knife. There was Molly, huddled next to the chair behind him, quite visible should he turn around. Okay. The man was slowly turning to his right. Okay. Sherlock straightened and darted into the toilet.

XXXXX

Oh, oh, Please-chest pounding, pounding-Molly cringed.

XXXXX

Make some noise: The shade. Now hide. Where-? Pantry! Quickly, quickly! Sherlock stepped in.

XXXXX

He was turning! He would see-! No. He was going? Molly watched with wide eyes as the man stealthily crept toward the back, disappearing around the corner. Oh, thank- Must go! Go! Crawling forward, she stared out of the open front door. Small groups of people were wandering back down the street. Could sneak out, join-Wait. Sherlock-! Oh, no. Molly focused on one boisterous group of boys. Could-

XXXXX

Sherlock waited behind the open pantry door, fists clenched. The light in the toilet came on; a grunt of disappointment. Then- Sniffing. The whiskey. Holding his breath, Sherlock reviewed: The knife in the man's right, held under hand-The light in the toilet went out-he was shorter, heavier than-Sniffing again. Close. Sherlock tensed; centered his weight: Ready. Ready. -Bam! The front door slammed shut. The man snarled and tore forward, yanked the door open and sprinted away. Sherlock peered after him, relieved. Good! But how-?

"Sherlock! Let's go!"

Molly. He turned to see her open the back door and run out. She must have-oh. Not bad. He followed and made sure the back door was locked. Where was she now? Oh. Sherlock joined her at the back corner, pausing to murmur, "Wait here." Moving stealthily along the side wall, he seized the evidence case, then continued to the front and scanned. The man was returning to the house, turning to shake his fist at a group of young men cursing him. Sherlock stole back to Molly, leaning against the back wall: She was breathing in shallow, audible gasps; eyes shut, forehead wet in the dim light. Curious. He dropped her evidence case by her feet. "We have to wait. He's coming back." She nodded with difficulty and began long, slow breaths. Oh. Some sort of anxiety attack. Okay.

Quickly, he walked across the back of the house to the other side and peered round that corner: A van with an open back and ramp pulled out was parked next to the house. On the van's side were caricatures of a pig, a cow and a chicken, all grinning and holding cleavers and butchers' knives with the words, "Pleased to Meat You!" printed in block letters beneath. The slanting doors were open, and the man was lifting a dolly when his mobile rang. Answering, he spoke in Czech, repeating the name, "Elaina" three times loudly during the conversation. When he ended the call, he carried the dolly into the basement, and Sherlock could see through the open van doors: Four full petrol cans. Oh. He pulled back and returned to Molly, still deliberately breathing._ "_We should go now."

Loud exhale. "Thank God."

XXXXX

"How many laws did we break tonight, Sherlock?" The two were in the back of a cab near the end of a long, silent ride. Molly was utterly exhausted; muscles like soup.

He waved the question away. "Elaina."

"Elaina?"

"Our pottering artist's name is Elaina. The knifeman received a call while you were…breathing." He glanced at her curiously.

Molly frowned. Elaina, the pottering artist. There was something about that-

"Molly-"

"Frustrated." Molly nodded. That was it.

"Frustrated?"

"Elaina. She's frustrated. She's a potter, but not when it comes to her appearance. Hair, make up, nails; she's quite devoted, but everything is cheap, home jobs. Frustrated girl." She glanced at her own bare and ragged nails. Perhaps a trip to the salon was in order.

"Frustrated." Sherlock repeated, and Molly flushed. Now that it had been spoken aloud, it seemed rather pointless. Frustrated. And-? However, Sherlock was nodding. "Yes. Frustrated and poor. Okay. Molly-"

"Silly, I suppose. Frustrated. Doesn't really matter."

"No, it's good. Good reasoning, anyway. Molly, does that happen often?"

"What?"

"The anxiety attack. Does it happen often?"

"No." Molly crossed her arms.

"Because-"

"We're here." The cab had pulled to her tower.

Sherlock glanced at her. "You go ahead. There's something I must do."

Molly stared, suddenly feeling quite young. Was this because of the panic attack? That was hardly fair; she had managed it! "What more could-?"

"Just a minor point. Don't wait up."

Molly frowned but opened the door and stepped out. The taxi pulled away, leaving her standing on the pavement, evidence case dangling by her side.

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	5. The Sticking Place

Tinderbox

Chapter 5: The Sticking Place

_Where once we danced our sweet routine_  
_It reeks of wine and kerosene_  
_-Donald Fagan_

_Sherlock: _I_ upset her? _Me_? It wasn't _me_ that upset her…_  
_-A Study in Pink_

It was much later. The people and emergency vehicles were gone; the street sleeping. In the shadows, the slanting doors of the empty house swung open with a muffled thump, and the man with the knife (now sheathed) emerged, strolled to the van and drove away, leaving the basement yawning. As the quiet rumble of the motor faded, all drifted back into tranquility. Suddenly, three rats scuttled out from beneath the front steps and scattered on the pavement, their tails whipping above them. With a crackle, yellow flames burst inside the house, surging frantically upward. Gasping, the house became a torch, flooding the darkness with ecstatic light.

XXXXX

The Mongoose, known among its clientele as "The Hole," had the double attraction of a conducive layout (many small rooms and multiple exits where deals could be done in private) and a management that understood the wisdom of looking away. At the bar, the knifeman was drinking something dark. The front door opened and a large pomaded man entered, surrounded by four lesser men in black leather. The large man stood by the door and surveyed the bar; then strutted in, pausing behind the knifeman to whisper something to a lackey. As he continued inside, the lackey leaned against the bar, giving the eager barkeep an order. The knifeman lifted his glass to drink, and, gazing blankly, the lackey lay another paper coaster over the one already there. When the barkeep returned with a bottle and several glasses on a tray, the lackey accepted it and left without a word.

XXXXX

Later, inside a warehouse across town, three people were passing the evening. A solidly built woman was wiping the recently retrieved kiln with a bleach soaked rag and muttering. For no apparent reason, she startled, staring fearfully; then flinched from something unseen. Straightening, her mouth crimped into a steely line, and she scrubbed with renewed vigor.

Sprawled on a cot behind a makeshift wall of stuffed bin liners and a standing mirror, Elaina was reading her last romance. Sighing, she turned uncomfortably and scratched her arms and neck. She peered at the knifeman and Spartan, grimaced and pulled her knees to her chest, staring again at her book.

The knifeman referred to the paper coaster as he typed on a laptop computer. On the screen appeared the face of an unknown man, taken on the street, with information on the bottom. A click, and another unknown face. Another click, and Mycroft appeared. Leaning forward, the knifeman smiled.

XXXXX

Early the next morning, Molly returned from her exercise class to find Sherlock in the same clothes as the night before, sitting at the bar with her pink laptop. Although Mycroft had warned against it, Molly didn't see the harm in giving Sherlock access to her computer which allowed for multiple users, password protected, of course. They had a routine: She awoke quite early and left while he slept; by the time she returned, the tea would be made, and he would be on her computer, complaining about the lack of interesting things happening, or how everyone had gotten things wrong, or, most often, just surfing in silence. Strangely, this was Molly's favorite time with Sherlock: He was harmlessly occupied through little effort on her part; also, she could sneak longish glances at him while he was distracted. She knew it was hopeless: He had shown absolutely no interest and was possibly-probably-gay. Looking would have to be pleasure enough. He was usually in his pajamas and robe, though; today was different. As Molly stepped inside to take off her shoes, she cringed at the stench. Whiskey. Still-? She tried to remember if Sherlock had been in bed when she left. She hadn't paid attention, being rather tired.

XXXXX

Sherlock glanced over. Laces loose, hair flying, shirt sweaty but not drenched-_"_How was Zumba?"

"It was fine." She poured herself some tea. "This is nice, Sherlock, thank you." A sip. "Did you go to bed last night?"

On the web page, nothing new. "No. I was following up on your idea. There is exactly one bookshop in the area of our empty house that carries Czech romances. As you undoubtedly know, romance readers obsessively consume all titles by their favored authors; Elaina will need a fix soon. The shop was open late so I presented myself as an errant lover trying to mend his ways. They promised to call me if she comes in." Oh, a post: Officer Johnson, first responder. Everything was quiet. Okay.

"Do you think it will work?"

"Not really. It's a long shot." A sharp click of Molly's teacup on the bar. Sherlock looked up; then the website flickered. Another report: Officer Hansen, fifth on the scene. Irate tenants. Nothing else. Sighing impatiently, Sherlock asked, "Is today Wednesday or Friday?"

"Friday."

"Half day! Perhaps-"

"I told Mrs. Hudson I would pick up your lab equipment. I'll have to borrow a van from St. Bart's because it's four boxes. Do you want it here?"

Sherlock glanced at her quickly. "It would be good to have." Safety inspector's report: Code violations. "You could pick up the wedding rings at 221-B."

"Wedding rings?"

"We are to be married to look at that flat on Saturday, remember?" Leaking pipes-

"You have wedding rings at 221-B?"

Inadequate lighting- "A set. Yes."

"O-K." Something in her tone made him look up again. She appeared to be mulling over something, but commented only, "As for the lab equipment, I'm not sure where to keep it. It has to be out of sight."

"We could put it on the refrigerator, disguised as something else." -Wiring problems. Okay.

"Four boxes?"

"Surely there is someplace-?"

"Well, I can't think of anywhere here, but we could store them at St. Bart's."

Of course. "What if you brought the boxes here and I chose some things to keep-" Oh. Secondary safety inspector report.

"What are you looking at?" Molly came around to peer over his shoulder.

Oh, she reeked. She usually stank after exercise; it was bearable at a distance, but increased tenfold with proximity. Breathing though his mouth, Sherlock replied, "I am monitoring the police reports on our bomb threat last night. There are only preliminary reports now, but the comprehensive one will be out soon."

"Have they found our repairman?"

Sherlock scowled. "I am not seeing anything. Some code violations, wiring problems." He read the most recent post. "Rat infestation."

Molly leaned closer. "Sherlock, is that the secure London police site? How is it you have access to it?"

"I was granted some privileges." He thought quickly; must- "Molly, are you training for something? It's every morning, this exercise. Zumba, Turbo Kick-boxing, Hot Yoga. You have lost-" he turned to evaluate; tricky: Her work out clothes were old and loose_ "-_half a stone since Christmas." Weight she could ill afford; her BMI must be down to seventeen.

Surprisingly, Molly smiled. "I made a resolution last New Year's."

"To become emaciated?"

The smile disappeared. "To cut some dead weight out of my life."

"Dead weight?" Oh. Fire marshal's report.

"Dead end relationships, stagnation at work. The exercise helps me focus, keep perspective: To make positive, healthy choices for myself." She took a deep breath but broke it off, clearing her throat and wiping her eyes.

"Oh?" Unmaintained equipment; blocked exits; seven wiring violations. Oh.

"I took a course and was promoted two months ago. That's how I knew how to collect evidence last night. And I've been dating. A lot."

Dating? Sherlock frowned: E-mail record showed some activity, nothing consistent; survey of the hairs in the flat-"It doesn't appear to be working. No man has been here in ages, other than your brother."

"Sherlock!" Molly drew back, crossing her arms.

Noting her stance uneasily, "Yes?"

"A bit…close."

"Close?" Ah! Paramedic's report! As Sherlock concentrated, Molly's fussing broke through randomly:

"Quite simply, I am not putting up…rebounders…their exes…Asperger's…robot vacuums and Star Trek!...flattering _users…_so sweet…don't give you…" She faded entirely: Overwrought tenant, nothing else. Where was- "You hacked into that, didn't you." She was next to his ear, radiating pong.

"I am only monitoring it!" Leaning away. "You to want to be left alone."

"No, I don't-! Sherlock! Will that leave a trace on my computer? Will my computer leave a trace on their system?" She stared at the site.

"It will be purged." He took a deep breath and regretted it instantly. "For God's sake-! Stop fussing and ask one of _them _home with you!"

"_Sherlock!_"

"Twaddle!" Sherlock's head was throbbing. "I solve crimes because I _focus, _not muck about with- Relationships! _You_ would go further if you would _stop _this distracting _rubbish_!" Oh! New post!

"You-! Rubbish! Hacked-!"

"Shht!" He held up his hand_._ "The comprehensive report." He read; then glared. "They didn't find him!"

"What?" Molly bent in again, nearly brushing him. With a slap, Sherlock smacked the computer shut.

"Go away, Molly. I must think."

Molly made a sound halfway between a gasp and a cough; then, high and loud: "Fine. But I'll have the van this afternoon and I want you_ here _to help me-"

"_What?_"

"The _van_! The boxes of equipment! You were going to cull it-"

"I don't want it! Any of it! Now-Shut up! Go away!" He turned his back and crossed his arm. Behind him, Molly stomped to her bedroom, slamming the door.

Ah. Quiet. Exhaling, Sherlock stood and started to pace. Okay. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene: The small appliance repairman had fallen from the window and got to the pavement, poisoned and bleeding; his thumb severed. He ran to the intersection, chased by someone with a cleaver. Crossing in front of him: Molly, driving a van-No. No. Sherlock shook his head, eyes still shut. Across the street was the shop that he didn't- Was it too far away? Sherlock could see it: In front were four Mollys in a queue, each holding a box and marching-No! Sherlock opened his eyes and scowled. He paced a bit and closed his eyes, trying again. Okay. The shop was in front, to the left, across the street: People, moving boxes-Stop! Sherlock's eyes popped open. Wait. There _would_ have been people moving boxes to the left. Moving boxes into a…_van_!

Sherlock spoke aloud_, "_Moving van." It fit! He repeated, "Moving van!" Of course! "Molly!" Quickly, he opened the computer, searching for information._ "_Molly!" Where was she? "Molly!"

"Sherlock?"

Ah! The number. Sherlock entered it into his mobile. "It was the moving van! They were moving out of their flat and loading a-" He stopped. Molly's eyes and nose were red and swollen; she was holding a wet, crumpled handkerchief. "What is wrong with your-"

"Moving van." Molly spoke quietly. "Of course. He saw an open moving van and hid in it."

Sherlock stared. She was upset. She had been-? Oh. But she was out now; she sounded sensible. When this kind of thing happened with John, there would be stomping and sulking, then John would come back, and it would be okay. But, until Reichenbach, John had never- Eying her, Sherlock reasoned: There were no active tears, just evidence of earlier tears. She was out, sounding rational: It must be okay. "I am ringing the van hire company nearest to the building." He held out the mobile_._ "Tell them you think your cat got into the van."

Molly regarded his hand without moving. "Why must _I_ do it?"

"I have never owned a cat." He continued to hold out the mobile.

An expression of-something-crossing her face, Molly took it and pressed call_. _"Um, hello? I, uh, live on Carson Street and my cat has gone missing. My father saw one of your vans parked down the road and I think that maybe-… Yes. Could you give me their name and number? … Oh. Okay, well, can you at least tell me where they were going? ... Thank you." She closed the mobilt and handed it back without looking at him. "The previous tenants went to Essex. They wouldn't give me their name or number. I'll check the hospitals in Chelmsford today. It's late, I must go to work." She started for her bedroom.

So, it _was_ okay. Right. All okay. Good. Good. "That was…quite good, Molly."

Molly stopped. She took a deep breath and faced him._ "_Sherlock. If you ever tell me to shut up in my flat again, you may pack your bags and leave." She walked to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly.

Oh. Not okay. Never okay again. Sinking, crushing-smashed into bits-He wanted it to be undone, to be better; but it was not better; would not be better. Never- His mobile gave a text alert, and he glanced down: _Buy yourself a razor -M_ appeared with an attachment. Mycroft, what did it matter! He gazed at Molly's bedroom door, wishing it were undone; wishing it were better; wishing- Then curiosity got the best of him; he clicked on the attachment and read.

XXXXX

Fifteen minutes later, Molly-Brave Molly!-had showered and dressed for work. Although she_ was_ brave, she wasn't sure she wanted to face Sherlock, not quite yet; but when she stepped out of the hallway, he waved her over. Watching telly. Okay. She came over.

XXXXX

On the television was a news report: "Police suspect arson in the early morning blaze…" A video of the empty house burning; another of the house as a smoking, blackened hull.

Molly gaped. "That's the house! We were there last night!"

Sherlock nodded, watching her. "Yes. He must have come back and burnt it."

"The man with the knife?"

"I saw the petrol cans in his van. He didn't need them, though, the place was a tinderbox: All that old dried wood. One match correctly applied-" Sherlock fell silent. Molly was engrossed with the television, not listening at all: The muscles around her mouth were still taut; her cheeks white but red in blotches. He could picture the bright arterial blood pumping through the capillaries in her skin just there. Sherlock knew what was proper, decent, and expected; only, he never did know quite how- "Molly, about before-"

"Oh God!"

On the television was a sketch that somewhat resembled Sherlock in his hood: "Police seek to question a tall, dark haired, unshaved man who was seen in the vicinity of the house last night as they investigate a possible connection between the fire and a false bomb threat for a building in the area."

"Calm-It's okay."

"But that's you!"

"Me and a hundred other men. No one knows I rang in the bomb threat, or that we were in the house. I am still dead."

Molly stared. "Mycroft knows! It was his throwaway you used!"

Mycroft! Sinking-"Mycroft alerted me to this news report. If he were really concerned he would ring me. No call, no-" Sherlock's mobile rang. Mycroft. Damn.

XXXXX

Across town, in a hospital emergency room staff lounge, the news report was playing on a television fixed high on a wall. John, in scrubs and a white coat, sipped a cup of coffee as he watched: "In review, police are seeking to question a tall, dark haired, unshaved man in connection with a terrorist threat and an early morning fire, suspected to be arson." John stared then shook his head. Couldn't be.

"Ah! Dr. Watson!" Peter Clay, the emergency room chief entered and shook John's hand._ "_I can't tell you how thrilled we are that you agreed to work with us here!"

"Well, I'm looking forward to it." Could be good. Could be very good. Anything was better than wallowing.

"As are we all. Listen, I don't mean to remind you of upsetting things, but my wife, you see, is a huge fan of your blog. Frankly, there'll be hell to pay if I didn't get your signature for her memory book." Smiling, he held out a small autograph book.

"Oh, of course." John signed eagerly.

"And then, when you're feeling up to it, dinner? I've two daughters, up and coming doctors, actually, and we all would be tickled pink to hear of your adventures first hand."

Conversations about-No, no, not yet. "Oh…Perhaps later."

"Of course, when you are ready. We all feel deeply sorry about your- The tragedy."

Deep breath, shoulders back. "Yes, well. They say work is the best antidote to sorrow." Who said that?

"And we have plenty of work here. I wonder, though, it's a tradition that we take the new fellow out for drinks after his first shift. Do you think…?"

"Oh, that would be fine." John smiled for the first time in what felt like years and years and years.

"Good man." Peter clapped him on the shoulder. "Come! I shall introduce you to the staff."

As he was leaving, John took one last glance at the television. Uncanny how that sketch looked like- John shook his head again and left.

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	6. A Deft Maneuver

Tinderbox

Chapter 6: A Deft Maneuver

_What else should I be? All apologies. _

_–Kurt Cobain_

Between St. Bart's and Molly's flat, the texts were flying:

_Analyses done?-SH_

_Not yet-Molly_

_Now?-SH_

_No-Molly_

_Now-SH_

_Patience. No thumbless patients or corpses in Chelmsford-Molly_

_Colchester?-SH_

_None nor in Harlow. Off to 221B-Molly_

_Analyses-SH_

_Done-Molly_

Molly slipped the packet of pictures and analyses into her bag. On her way out, her text alarm chirped:_ Hurry. Opening at flat. Agent to meet us in 2 hrs. Rings under bed table at 221B-SH_. Sighing, Molly dropped her mobile into her bag and left.

Twenty minutes later, she was kneeling in Sherlock's bedroom on Baker Street, looking under the small bedside table: Nothing. Confused, she lifted the table: A plain gold wedding ring set was under one of the legs. Why-? Molly pocketed the set and replaced the table; it tipped without the rings. Of course.

XXXXX

Sherlock and Molly parked the St. Bart's van around the block so no one would associate it with them. This was Sherlock's idea, as was their disguises; with a visit to a second hand shop and the last of his spending money, he resembled a professor: Shaved; hair pulled back and tied neatly; wearing a pair of round, gold glasses and a light tweed suit. After much conversation and a startling investigation into her closet-how could anyone own so many clothes, most of which didn't fit properly?-Molly looked older in a pair of black wool pants and a cream cashmere sweater. Of course, both wore wedding rings.

Molly stepped out of the van and shut the door rather loudly. "I still don't see why I had to change."

"I am to be your husband, not your father." They started walking. "Now, you must do most of the talking. It is imperative that we discover precisely where the previous tenants went and their names, if possible. Be subtle, though. The agent must not-"

"I? Why must _I_ do the talking?"

Sherlock glanced at her: She was staring fixedly ahead, muscles tense. He sighed. "Realtors appeal to the wives-You mustn't be nervous. You were brave last night; that man was this close to stabbing you bloody or hacking you to pieces." Molly seemed to catch her breath. He continued, "This is easy; the agent will want to believe us. No kill chambers or madmen with long knives."

"Sherlock. Be quiet."

Sherlock glanced again. Now she was quite pale. "Molly?"

Deep breath_. "_There is a reason I work in the morgue-"

They turned the corner: The charred timbers of the empty house, still steaming. Sherlock was impressed. "Ah! Thorough job. Had we been in there, we would have been burnt black." He started forward, but Molly was still. "Molly?" No response. "Molly?" She was as white as paper; her eyes tightly shut; breathing shallowly-Oh. This again. Sherlock moved in front of her, holding her cold hands_._ "Molly." After a moment, she began to take long, deep breaths, her cheeks growing slightly pinker._ "_That's better. You must be going to your happy place. Good." Adequate oxygen, calming imagery, reassuring touch; shouldn't be too long now. Any second. Not too terribly-Sherlock checked his watch, glanced up the road then back at her. Not too-"Molly, it would be really good if you went to your happy place a bit…faster."

Molly grimaced, took one last breath and-Ah!-opened her eyes. However, as soon as she caught sight of the burnt house, she gasped and closed them again. No. Sherlock sighed. Need a diversion. Splash of cold water-? Have no water. If she were a man, a slap-Oh! She was a woman, right. Hm.

XXXXX

Molly was concentrating: Clyde curled on her lap; stroking him, fingers in his fur, so soft she could not tell where she ended and he began; Clyde on her shoulder rubbing his head on her cheek, purring; kissing the top of his head, kissing-Wait. This wasn't memory, this was-Oh. Oh... Oh…

XXXXX

When Sherlock stopped, her eyes flew open, and she drew away, covering her mouth._ "_What are you doing!"

"Giving you something else to think about." It seemed to be working, good. Sherlock paused; his cheeks and hands felt warm. Curious. He took Molly's arm and started guiding her down the pavement, careful to put himself between her and the view of the house.

"That…what…Sherlock!" Pulling away her arm, "You mustn't do that unless you mean it!"

"I did mean it." He took her arm and started again, sure to hold her hand this time.

"No you didn't. You…you just said-!"

"Yes…" A few more steps and they would be past the house_-"_…and…"

"And?"

Sherlock answered slowly, "And…you are a beautiful woman." An accurate statement; she had no disfiguring scars. She stopped short again.

_"_You mustn't say things you don't believe!"

Sherlock looked her in the eye. "I do believe it. I never lie." She hadn't pulled her hand away this time, so he resumed walking, bringing her along.

"Yes you do! You lie all the time!"

"I never lie to you_,_ Molly." Technically true. Only a few more steps.

Molly fell silent. Her breathing had returned to normal, her hand was warmer, and her cheeks were only slightly pale. As they approached the corner, she spoke, _"_But you do lie, then you are lying now…so…" Relieved, Sherlock paused and gazed at her; clever girl. Molly glanced around. "We passed the-?" Catching sight of Sherlock, she frowned. "Sherlock, you are impossible."

"Ah!" Sherlock smiled._ "_Now we sound married. Let us look at a flat." He took her arm, and they strolled around the corner.

XXXXX

Deidre stood in the entryway as the couple came around the corner, her smile growing wider the closer they came: Walking arm in arm, how cute! When they were in hearing distance, her hands flew into the air._ "_Hello! You must be Heidi and Mark! I'm Deidre, your agent!" She sized them up quickly: Middle to upper market clothing, a few years out of style. Okay; professionals, but in careers that don't pay: Scholars, maybe? Writers? Bohemians! They would love this flat. Thrilled, she shook their hands, looking each in the eye. "So lucky we had an opening today!"

The woman-Heidi-smiled and nodded heartily. "Such a _lovely _building."

Ah! Deidre reminded herself: Heidi was the one who chose the flat to start; she was already half sold on it, must feed that fire. Deidre's smile became a bit tense, "Well, we had a bit of excitement last night. Did you see the news?" The couple shook their heads. Lovely._ "_Well, it was just a mix up. This building is absolutely _fine_. In fact, it has an _amazing _history-!" Sharing some of the more amazing facts, she led them in.

The flat was charming. Loads of pre-war charm: Crown moldings, baseboards, hardwood floors, plenty of space- Pity they had to replace that charming chandelier with the buzzing fluorescent-Plenty of space, Deidre reminded herself firmly. Large windows! Chef's kitchen! Absolutely, utterly charming. She turned to them and announced, "Now you two are _quite_ lucky! The previous tenants vacated with two weeks left on their lease. Their loss is your gain. You can move in any time you like and your lease will start at the beginning of the month."

The man-Mark-asked, "They left unexpectedly. Why?"

Deidre cleared her throat prettily. A bit short. He couldn't know about- No. He was just that sort. "Well…They, um-"

"Oh! Such good lines!" Heidi had wandered into the living room, and was gazing in wonder.

Deidre followed her, beaming. "Yes, absolutely-" Oh. Mark was in the kitchen, going through the drawers and cupboards_._ Deidre cleared her throat again, judiciously avoiding a direct look.

"Oh, don't mind Mark." Heidi was reassuring. "He enjoys a spot of baking and wants to be sure of his space."

"Oh, a baker! Lucky girl!" Deidre nodded knowingly at Heidi, who nodded back just as knowingly. Men will have their little hobbies!

Heidi suddenly stretched out her arms. "Look at all this space! Why _anyone_ leave? The rent is so _low." _She lowered her arms a bit. "The area seemed a bit rough, though."

Feed that fire! "Yes, and did you notice the high ceilings? As for the previous tenants, the husband found a new job in Essex, so they moved in with her mother to be closer to it. They _loved_ this flat. And it is quite affordable." At that moment, Mark returned from the kitchen, saying nothing. Deidre silently sighed in relief.

_"_Oh, Essex, what a nice area." Heidi was smiling.

Mark joined in, "Heidi's sister is in Southend on Sea."

Heidi looked directly at Deidre, asking, "Oh, is that where they went? Such a charming area."

Deidre glanced from one to the other. What-

"How is the plumbing here?" That man was rather curt! "I noticed some spots in the kitchen. Is there leaking?"

Holding her pleasant expression, Deidre stepped in front of the kitchen and addressed Heidi. "Well, actually, the previous tenants went to Coggeshall."

Heidi nodded encouragingly, "Oh, well that's a nice ar- uh- town."

Then rude Mark snapped, "There was a fire down the street. I must look at the wiring. How is the wiring here?"

Deidre was queasy for less than half a second. Giving him an expert smile, she chirped, "Oh, it's fine!" and took Heidi's arm for a private chat. "Well now, the previous tenants, their leaving, that's quite a tale. You see, he went up Wednesday morning to Harwich to interview for a job on a transport ship going to Sweden. He finds out he has the job at noon, but has to report to the dock at midnight sharp for a three week trip. Now, her mother is ailing, so they had been planning to go there anyway and were half packed. He hightails it back, hires a van, ropes some mates into helping-She's got a little one and a baby on the way, so she's not much help- they scramble it and manage to leave here by half ten. As soon as they pull into Coggeshall, he dashes off to be with his ship, leaving his poor pregnant wife to deal with her mother and the little one for nearly a month! Isn't it _awful_! Now I know you will want to see the _bedrooms_-"

"You mean their van has been parked since Wednesday night, untouched." Mark was speaking to her, but gazing at Heidi, who gasped.

Bewildered, Deidre asked, "What is it, dear?"

Heidi gave a confused glance, then pointed vaguely at the kitchen. "A rat!"

"What!" Damn! Deidre looked around.

Mark snorted-he was a common lout!- "There are rodent holes in the kitchen; cockroach dust too. You might want to call an exterminator." He took Heidi's arm from Deidre and started for the door.

Walking, Heidi glanced back and called, "It's a lovely flat, Deidre-"

"It is a rat infested pit. Goodbye, Deidre!"

Lout!

XXXXX

Ten minutes later, Sherlock and Molly were back in the St. Bart's van, Molly behind the wheel. Sherlock took out his mobile. "To Coggeshall."

Molly started the van. Wait. "We don't know where in Coggeshall."

Typing madly- "Property titles are a matter of public record."

"We don't know their names."

Sherlock pulled an envelope out of his pocket. "Joan and Sam Williams."

Okay, but- "They are with her mother. We need her maiden name."

"Yes." Continuing to type, "Marriage certificates are also a matter of public record."

Ah. "Just tell me where to turn." The van pulled away.

XXXXX

Across town, a Spartan warrior sat quietly, waiting, as the Magical Ones gathered behind things and watched her. They were not gods; she was Christian, and to call Them gods was blasphemy, but They were Magical, somehow: When They showed Themselves, They were tremendous, glowing and floating; They spoke in voices she heard with her bones rather than her ears, uttering commands that Must be Obeyed. If she didn't obey, or if she displeased Them in any way, They sent the dark, sticky Natters, who would hide and laugh at her, sneak out and climb onto her head and shoulders, whispering horrid things in her ears. It was the Natters who left marks-Filth!-for her to clean again and again. She waited. Soon, They would come; something would come; something always came. She whimpered.


	7. Surprise, Surprise

Tinderbox

Chapter 7: Surprise, Surprise

_`Found IT,' the Mouse replied rather crossly: `of course you know what "it" means.'_  
_`I know what "it" means well enough, when I find a thing,' said the Duck: `it's generally a frog or a worm.'_  
_-Lewis Carroll_

The village of Coggeshall was sun-drenched that afternoon. Children played beneath the wide chestnuts; tourists strolled in the garlanded main square. In a nearby residential neighborhood, a small neat house had a moving van parked in front. Walking slowly, Sherlock and Molly stopped behind it and stood together, gazing. Molly sighed. "He's dead isn't he."

"Most likely."

She nodded sadly. "I'm good with dead people." Glancing at Sherlock,_ "_Shall we go with the cat story again?"

Sherlock glanced back. "Will you be all right?"

"Yes." Molly squared her shoulders.

Twenty minutes later, the van doors were open and Sherlock and Molly were inside, unloading. They had a system: Sherlock handed the items to Molly, who deposited them on a small pile on the pavement, all under the watchful eye of a pregnant Joan Williams. The stink of decomp that had been faint when they first opened the doors was growing stronger the further in they went. Molly was silently repeating the same platitudes she did in the morgue: Answers for the family, justice for the dead, truth leads to healing; but honestly, she felt like crying. And she kept having to call, "Kitty, kitty!" to sell their story, which made her sadder still.

Ahead of her, Sherlock removed one last chair revealing the repairman, crumpled in a dark pool, hand wrapped in a bloody jumper. Both sighed. Beside the body was an open mobile; Molly handed Sherlock a pair of gloves, and he picked it up, checking the call record. "He rang this number, Renee, at ten forty-three Wednesday night. Most likely the last thing he did before he died." He handed the mobile to Molly. "Enter it in a throwaway. And-" he removed the repairman's wallet "-he was Daniel Russell-"

_"_Have you found your cat?" Joan Williams was calling from outside.

With a glance at Molly,_ "_How are you at screaming?"

XXXXX

Outside, Joan felt her baby turn as a scream cut from the van, and the tall man leaned out._ "_Ring 999! There is a man back here! I think he's dead!" Oh! She took out her mobile and made the call. A moment later, the tall man reemerged, holding his pretty young wife. "Pardon me but this whole business has very much upset my wife. She is having a panic attack." He helped her down; oh dear, she was hyperventilating. The man continued,_ "_I must take her to hospital. We shall give the police our names and numbers from there." Watching as he walked off with his arm around the poor pale girl, Joan ran a hand over her belly: There, there!

XXXXX

The St. Bart's van was where they had left it, four blocks away. Molly never thought she would be happy to see the boxy machine that had jolted them all the way to Coggeshall. She had worked with many cadavers, but always in a lab: Calm, clean. This was so raw. She glanced at Sherlock, pacing and musing into his hands. Behind his back, the other lab techs called him 'Data.' When he had been particularly beastly, she had joined in the laughter, but right now, the detachment seemed rather appealing.

Sherlock looked up. "Do you have the-?" Molly handed him the throwaway, and he pressed call. _"_Hello, madam. This is officer Smith from the London Police ringing in regards to Daniel Russell-" He flinched, holding the device away from his ear as Renee's shrill voice raged, and Molly felt her throat tighten in sympathy. When the outburst quieted, Sherlock continued, "Yes. We believe the van was heading to Coggeshall. It is quite important that we review your testimony. As you told the previous officer, Daniel had said he had a job late Wednesday-?" He held the mobile out so Molly could hear.

"He was done for the day, but had a call from a foreign man-He didn't mention the name!- to fix a kiln. Half past seven. That's when he rang to tell me he was taking it. Then at quarter to eleven-" She broke into a sob.

"He rang to say he was attacked."

Rene's voice rose to a hysterical pitch, "They tried to kill him! They locked him up and-"

"What precipitated that attack?"

Renee gasped- "Bones! Human bones! A redheaded woman knocked over a plastic tub. He saw a skull and a leg bone and other bones-"

"All right, madam. The Coggeshall police will be contacting you shortly." Sherlock closed the mobile, wiped it and dropped it down a storm drain.

"Not drugs. Corpses." Molly felt her gorge rising and took a deep breath. "You knew, didn't you."

"No, not for certain. There was no evidence of ecstasy production in the rubbish outside; I suspected something more sinister." He resumed pacing. "Okay. Molly, you know cadavers. How would you get rid of one? Talk me through it."

Molly took another deep breath. Right. "The fastest, most complete way would be to dissolve it in lye-"

"No. They would need a large pressure cooker and seventy gallons of water. They had a kiln and a walk-in."

"Okay, if that's what I had…" Molly felt herself calming, focusing. "First, I would remove the viscera and drain the blood. The fastest way would be to-Ah! Those holes in the top of the walk-in! They were probably for hooks to hold an inverted cadaver. The cold would cut down on the smell and insect activity." Molly blinked in amazement; it was as though her brain had been taken over by someone far more clever than she. Feeling slightly breathless, "Once the blood was drained, the body could be dismembered and incinerated piece by piece in the kiln…" Frowning, "But that would take some time-"

"He saw bones."

"Oh, right. To get rid of the flesh I would- Oh- OH! Stupid-of course!"

"What?"

"In the rubbish pile at the house: Dark dirt; do you remember?" She glanced at Sherlock, who shook his head. "I took a picture. There were casings from _Dermestes maculatus_. Rather a lot of them."

"Hide beetles. Rather common. But there couldn't have been-"

"Exactly! The larvae will eat anything related to skin or hides. If hide beetles had been in the bin with the finger-"

"The finger would not have had any flesh on it. The casings were placed there: Rubbish from the house!"

"They must have been using the beetles to remove the flesh, then the kiln to incinerate the bones." Catching her breath, Molly admired it: A puzzle solved! Then she felt ill: What hideous people.

"Neat." Sherlock's eyes lit. "A boutique."

"What?"

"Don't you see? It's magic! They transform bodies into household ornaments or children's toys- Oh! Of course! Mementoes!"

"Mementoes?" Molly's head was starting to swim.

"The teddy bears, Molly! The vases! They are stuffed with ashes! Proof the job was done. So elegant!" Molly had never seen him this excited, almost giddy. He opened the van door. "Let us return to London. I shall ring Mycroft. We'll put a name to this butcher."

Wonderful.

XXXXX

In the warehouse, Elaina was feeling the itch. She had finished her last romance the night before, her old books were burnt, but she was forbidden to leave because of that stupid accident. The ghastly moment ran incessantly through her mind: The tub falling, bursting open; the bones skittering across the floor; the kiln repairman dropping his spanner- It didn't matter that they had planned to do it all along; that it was the repairman's escape that caused the trouble, and whose fault was that! Nothing mattered: She was tainted. Trapped. She stood and began to pace. She needed-

XXXXX

At the bar of a cheerful pub, bustling with tired but contented people, John was nursing a cup of coffee. He was very happy. Someone clapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up to see Peter Clay grinning down at him._ "_Stellar first day, Dr. Watson! Nice catch on the Jones' child!"

"Oh! Thanks!"

"Many would have let that slip by, but not you." Peter looked up and waved someone over. "I'd like you to meet my daughter Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Doctor John Watson. Rebecca is doing her first year of residency at Mercy View."

Oh. My. Lovely! "Ah! What is your-"

"Pediatrics. My sister and I are mad about your blog. We're so glad you're working with Dad. You must come over for dinner."

"Love to!"

Peter smiled broadly. "Sit down Rebecca. I'll fetch us some food."

John's heart flipped gratefully as Rebecca took the stool next to him. Do sit! Sit and stay.


	8. What He's Got

Chapter 8: What He's Got

_He's mean to me-_  
_Ooo! But he could be so _sweet _to me!_

_- Don Convay_

The next morning, Sherlock was again at the kitchen bar, this time reviewing the pictures and sample analyses from the house in his pajamas and dressing gown. Normally, he didn't sleep when on a case, but they were at a bit of an impasse and last night he thought he would make the attempt. As it was, he had spent the night pacing, sorting through the facts again and again. Who could they be, the knife man, Spartan and Elaina? Mycroft knew. In their conversation on the way back to London yesterday evening, Sherlock had gone through very few facts when he caught the unctuous tone in Mycroft's voice- "Ah, I see. Please, do go on." -that meant he knew all and was playing the listener so that Sherlock wouldn't know the giveaway point. Sherlock did know it-it was when he had mentioned the wife's OCD-but he had played the ignoramus, prattling on, so that Mycroft wouldn't know that he knew the point at which Mycroft had known; and the game went on. Knowing the vital clue didn't help, however. As usual, Mycroft was sharing nothing. "Send the girl. I must make certain you haven't terrorized her." Fine. But Sherlock was going to give himself every opportunity to find the truth on his own. Early in the morning, he decided Molly's pictures and analyses were an excellent start.

He glanced up when Molly entered the kitchen, poured herself a cup of tea, and leaned against the refrigerator, facing him. He referred to the printout he was reading. "Elaina was the niece."

"Yes. His. And a drug user, mostly cocaine, until eighteen months ago. Nothing since then."

Referring to another printout, "Yes." Hair analysis. Clever.

"Pity we couldn't identify anyone." She sipped her tea. "I have a second copy of the analyses, shall I give them to Mycroft?"

Sherlock grimaced slightly. "Don't bother. I sent a text." He picked up a photo of the master bed and turned it toward her. "Here. What does this tell you?"

Leaning closer, _"_Cheap, old, worn-"

"Yes…" She would get it. Ah, she smelled clean!

She examined it a moment longer then smiled. "It's even. The wells are the same on both sides."

"Yes! We know his size." Sherlock took the picture back._ "_Apparently, she has similar dimensions."

Molly straightened, the smile fading slightly. "A strong woman."

"Or fat."

"Fat or not, she's strong. She had to lift that bed to clean the baseboard behind it. It looks heavy and I doubt he helped her." Frowning, Sherlock stared at the picture then at another shot of under the bed. She was right. That was rather good, actually; she must be learning.

_"_I'm off to meet Mycroft." Molly set her cup in the sink and went to fetch her coat. Watching her, Sherlock realized his cheeks were warm. Oh. Fever coming on. He didn't feel poorly, though; in fact, he felt rather good on the whole, but still. He wondered if there was any orange juice in.

Suddenly, Molly placed the wedding ring by him. "Here," she said, "No more your beautiful wife."

Sherlock stared absently at the ring. '_Beautiful _wife'? How very odd. She thought it was a lie; a trick. Of course she was beautiful; she was hardly grotesque. He gazed at her surreptitiously as she was pulling on her coat: Even coloration; interesting contrasts; proportional features; smooth, round-"I wasn't lying, you know."

Drawing on her sleeves, she glanced up, "Pardon?"

"Yesterday. I wasn't lying. I was stating a fact." Sherlock slipped the ring into his dressing gown pocket. Perhaps she could take it back later.

"What fact?" She straightened her collar.

"You are beautiful. That is an empirical fact." He reached for the picture of the dress.

After a long moment of silence, he looked back up. He didn't expect effusive thanks, but she might have acknowledged him at least. She was fastening her coat, focusing fixedly on the buttons, her cheeks slightly brighter than before. Finally she spoke, "Ah, well, that's- Okay, so, I'd best be off." Taking her bag from the shelf, she turned to the door.

What-? "You don't believe me."

"Of course I do. You never lie."

"No, I lie all the time." She knew that. Oh. Sarcasm. So she still thought it was a lie. "I was not lying then, and I am not lying now." No response; not even a look! "Why don't you believe-?"

"I-" Molly glanced halfway toward him, then away_. "_Yesterday- I know why you said what you said and- did what you did. It helped, really. So, thank you. But I don't _need_- You needn't-" She faltered and grew quiet, eyes on the ground_. _

For God's sake. "Ah. You think I invent this to-" he wiggled his fingers "-enhance your self-esteem? I would never do that. I am a scientist; I state only that I can substantiate: You are demonstrably beautiful." He scowled, confounded. "I don't know why you won't believe me. You are quite weird."

"Weird! I'm weird?" Now she was facing him; hands on hips, mouth tight-"_You're_ calling _me_ weird?"

"No! You only _act_ weir-" Sherlock stopped abruptly as Molly crossed her arms, looking daggers. "You are beautiful-"

"Beautiful and _weird!_"

No!-No! "Stunning! Gorgeous! Dazzling!" He stood hastily, reaching.

Molly held up one hand_._ "Stop it, Sherlock. Really." She turned again to the door. "Just stop."

She was upset. She was leaving. No-_ "_Molly-!" Please.

"Beautiful. Of course I am." Her back to him, her voice sounded strange, sodden. "Conveniently beautiful when something is wanted-"

"No, Molly, no." Sherlock spoke quickly. "That is it exactly: I am never subjective; I have no personal interest. No interest at all." She seemed to stiffen; then her shoulders drooped a bit, and he stepped beside her_. "_Shall I review the evidence?" Eyes lowered, she made no reply. Sherlock took a moment to appraise, then began: "All your limbs and appendages are intact and function appropriately. Your skin, in general, is blemish free. You are hygienic-well, generally. Your hair has a sort of…glossiness; loose, it complements the planes of your face; up, it reveals the line that runs from the base of your ear to the notch of your clavicle." Sherlock indicated this line. "It is only a tendon, but Renaissance artists were enthralled by this line."

As he was speaking, the warmth had spread from his cheeks to his neck and was beginning to invade his chest. There was no congestion, but his heart rate was up slightly, a mild lightheadedness; some sort of flu? He pictured a virus probing a cell, shooting in its DNA. Odd that he didn't feel unwell; that he was feeling increasingly invigorated. He continued, "Your neck is supple, your jawline clean; a poetic man would call them elegant. Your mouth-"

"Is too small." Her voice was quite soft. "You always said- 'Small mouth'."

She was right. Why? Sherlock leaned in to study her face. Oh._ "_Large eyes."

"What?" Barely audible.

"It is why your mouth appears small. Your eyes are exceptionally large and well-shaped, the color of-" Sherlock considered carefully:"Cambrian amber. Without lipstick, all attention is drawn upward, and your face appears unbalanced; distorted, even. You need color on your lips in order to achieve perfect-" oh, no "-symmetry." She was- Crying? Oh, no! "Why are you crying?" What did he say?

Molly turned away quickly, wiping her eyes. "I- You- Must go." She stepped hastily to the front door and opened it.

"But why-?" Sherlock watched, utterly baffled, as Molly shook her head and left.

XXXXX

The cemetery was always peaceful, always calm. Those horrible first few weeks, John had found himself there every day, sometimes twice a day, visiting Sherlock. Sometimes he talked; on the worst days, he couldn't control his tears; mostly, he simply waited. But nothing happened. No clues, no grand realizations, no voices from beyond: No answers. Everything was grim and boring; visiting the grave was as pointless as- as everything. John stopped coming as often; tried to stop talking about Sherlock, thinking about him. Then, things did start to happen, not terribly exciting or important things, but things Sherlock would want to know about, so John would visit and tell him.

Today, John had so much to tell: About the job, about the patient, about Rebecca and the blog; but as he approached, someone else was at Sherlock's grave: A woman with her head bowed. A woman? John paused respectfully. When she glanced at her mobile, he saw it was Molly Hooper, that lab tech who was besotted with Sherlock. How sad, visiting a man who had thought so little of her when he was alive! John was considering saying hello when he noticed her checking the road. His heart dropped- A limousine, the same limousine that used to steal him, pulled up and Molly-that stupid girl!-went and got in. As the limo pulled away, John felt like kicking over Sherlock's gravestone and stamping on his grave. "Bastard." he muttered, and stormed away.


	9. A Great Big Chunk of My Heart

Tinderbox

Chapter 9: A Great Big Chunk of My Heart

_Love makes me treat you the way that I do_  
_Gee, Baby, ain't I good to you? _

_-Redman and Radzaf_

In the limo, Molly burned with shame. It all came crashing back to her: The thoughts she had had about Sherlock, the stolen glances, helping him fake his death; they all seemed the foolish acts of a foolish girl. Of course he despised her; of course, he had no personal interest. Could he have been more clear? He never looked at her, or tried to get close to her. He barely spoke to her! No compliments unless he wanted something; certainly no kisses unless he needed her help. She knew this. And the way he had followed John Watson those first two weeks: There was the personal interest. Why he had chosen this moment to rub her nose in it, she could not guess. Molly sighed and tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She had been starting to feel good, comfortable with him; to be able to think around him, to be clever even. Fine. She knew for certain where things stood now. They would solve this case and eventually he would go home; she wouldn't have to see him again, ever. Perhaps she would get another cat.

The limo pulled up to Mycroft sitting on a bench overlooking the busy Thames. Reluctantly, Molly stepped out. She had met with him a few times before to discuss Sherlock and the arrangements; Mycroft seemed mild, but he repelled her: The smarmy way about him, the knowing looks. Talking with Mycroft made Molly want to bathe.

XXXXX

As the girl took the seat next to him, Mycroft turned and smiled invitingly. "Hello my dear. I thought we'd enjoy this fine weather while we have it." He smiled at the river. Four agents: One on the tug in front of him, two on the path, one on the seventh floor of the office block behind them. Deep in his ear, the conversation buzzed: Updates, reports, general intel. "And how are you and Sherlock getting on?"

She smiled weakly_._ "As well as can be expected."

"I have no idea how to interpret that." Mycroft laughed and she joined him; they laughed together for a moment or two. Sighing, Mycroft moved on. _"_I see he is keeping busy. I trust he hasn't bothered you with his shenanigans?"

"No, he does what he wants. I just work down at the morgue."

Mycroft smiled again. Clumsy liar. At least she was aware that she should be lying. "Ah, so you do." Quickly, he reviewed the security measures: Four agents here, the limo home, the entrances at her building under surveillance, and Sherlock could actually help bring this one in. Acceptable risk. "Well, I hope you haven't grown too fond of him." Mycroft removed a large envelope from his overcoat_. "_With the description Sherlock provided, this character could be only one man: The last major player in the Moriarty crime syndicate. If we could capture this last fish-"

"Sherlock could move back?" Her eyes lit.

Ah. Mycroft filed that reaction away for future use. "Oh, dear, has it been that hard on you? I know he can be…trying." He cocked his head gently to the side.

She glanced away. "It's fine." Returning. "Who is this man?"

Damn. Ah well. Mycroft opened the envelope and drew out the first picture. "Colonel Gustav Moran: Big game hunter, formerly a sniper in the Czech army, more recently Moriarty's go to man for assassinations, now seeking new employers. He is suspected to have cutting edge weaponry: Infrared thermal sights-" Mycroft glanced up "-he can see through walls and at night; a powerful, silent and accurate rifle. His specialty is making people disappear: He shoots, extracts and vaporizes people. Not an easy feat on our ever shrinking island. Here-" the next picture "-is Moran's wife, Muriel: She's unbalanced, hospitalized twice for obsessive-compulsive behavior and possible schizophrenia. However, Colonel Moran seems to inspire long periods of lucidity, during which she is an able support person. Finally-" one last picture "-Moran's niece, Elaina Costas: She spent a good deal of her childhood in the Czech juvenile justice system for petty things: Shoplifting and the like. At nineteen, she was put away for five years for drug trafficking. Prison is where she learned to sew and paint, and several other skills no doubt. When released, she emigrated illegally to America where she worked in a sweat shop, then as a prostitute. Addict. Eighteen months ago she came here to dry out and help her uncle." Mycroft snorted_. "_Sounds like Sherlock's kind of woman."

"Sherlock's kind of woman?" Her face took on a strained, almost hunted expression. "I didn't think- I don't think he likes women."

Mycroft smiled benignly, his mind racing_. "_Of course he does, my dear; especially the morally fallen ones. He can hold them at arm's length and study them as you would an insect." Mycroft sighed_. _As a reconnaissance run, this had been sadly disappointing. _"_Well, as delightful as this has been, I must be off. Happy hunting." He handed her the pictures and the envelope containing the profiles. "Oh. And this." With some distaste, a small envelope containing Sherlock's fortnightly cash, which seemed to be wanted every ten days. Had it been anyone else, Mycroft would have left her with: 'Tell Sherlock I expect to be apprised of his progress,' but-Sherlock being Sherlock-He stood and strolled away.

XXXXX

On the other side of the road, a small blue sedan approached slowly, and the driver, Gustav Moran, watched the target make his way along the pavement. Gustav would have to find a new vehicle, but it appeared his intelligence was good.

XXXXX

The limo stopped in front of her building, and Molly, dreading seeing Sherlock again, stepped out. As she paused to unlock the entryway door, someone stepped behind her. _"_Molly." It was John Watson, quite serious.

"John!" Molly scrambled to remember-Yes. She knew what she was to do. Given the recent events, she was tempted to reveal all; let those two trip off into the sunset together. But, no.

"Where is he, Molly."

Molly smiled gently_. "_You'd better come up." She unlocked the door and allowed John in ahead of her; then pushed the alarm on her key ring.

XXXXX

In Molly's flat, Sherlock, now dressed, was back at the bar, trying to concentrate on the pictures and analyses. The warmth he had felt earlier had transformed into shuddering chills that raced down his back and into his chest; his heart rate was still up; he felt slightly nauseated, and his eyes appeared to be affected: Tight. He pictured his poor cells after a viral attack-Burst-their decimated bits floating about. He was definitely getting sick and-Of course!-there was no orange juice, no vitamin C, nothing at all to help him. Just tea. Primitive! He took an angry sip, and unbidden, the memory of the last few minutes with Molly intruded. He had upset her, again! He knew he must apologize, but what was he to say? 'I'm sorry I called you beautiful?' 'I'm sorry I _proved_ you were beautiful?' Perhaps she didn't like Cambrian amber? Why- The doorbuzzer sounded three times. Oh! Five minutes. He swept the papers together, jammed them in the folder, ran to the bookcase, slipped the folder between two books, rushed to the half made sofa-

XXXXX

In the lobby, Molly and John waited for the lift. And waited. And waited. Impatient, John pushed the call button once again.

XXXXX

Sherlock stood over the kitchen sink and gulped his tea. Three minutes, forty-five seconds: No time to wash. He wiped the cup quickly, placed it in the cupboard, turned to the coat rack-

XXXXX

John turned to Molly_. "_On which floor is your flat?"

"Fourth."

"Let's take the stairs." Molly pointed him to the stairwell, and he started up quickly.

XXXXX

In Molly's bathroom, Sherlock was gathering his toiletries and throwing them in his bag: Two minutes, thirty seconds. Opening the linen closet, he took out two stacks of towels and sheets. One minute, twenty seconds: He removed the false back and stuffed in his toilet kit, hoody, violin, Brian in his jam jar-

XXXXX

John reached the fourth floor landing door and stood looking down at Molly, still half a flight behind him. Hand at her side, she pushed the alarm one last time.

XXXXX

The doorbuzzer sounded once: Less than one minute. Sherlock replaced the final stack of towels, stepped into the closet and shut the door.

XXXXX

"What number?" John felt like shaking her.

"423." As Molly climbed the last few steps, he passed through into the corridor. 423, 423-! He sped to the door and stood with his ear against it. Nothing- Nothing- He stood aside so Molly could unlock, then entered quickly. The flat was orderly: No violin, no mess- No Sherlock.

Behind him, Molly entered, hung her coat and put away her bag. "Would you like some tea, John?"

"That would be lovely, Molly. May I use your-?" he pointed down the hall.

"First door on the right." Resolutely, John entered Molly's bedroom and began to search: In the closet, under the bed, in the drawers, everywhere. Anything vaguely masculine? No.

He entered the bathroom: Hairs? Toothpaste? Nicotine patch wrappers? None.

One last place. John stepped out of the bathroom and opened the linen closet door, looking back and up. Linens.

XXXXX

Crouched in a space above the linens, hidden by a false ceiling, Sherlock held his breath.

XXXXX

Nothing. John closed the door and made his way slowly to the kitchen, sitting at the bar. "So he's not here."

Molly placed a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits in front of him. "John-"

"I know that limo. That's _Mycroft's_ limo and the only reason you would be seeing _him_ is if Sherlock is- is-" Molly leaned across the bar and touched his wrist.

"John-"

"Where is he, Molly?"

"John, Mycroft has been clearing up Jim Moriarty's gang-"

"No."

"I know something of his cases. I'm good in the lab. Mycroft doesn't trust his own people."

John _s_hook his head_. "_No!" He crossed his arms.

"It's almost done. One last major player: A Czech sniper, Jim's best assassin: Gustav Moran. The house that burned down Thursday night, it was his headquarters. We almost have him-"

"No…No…"

"But John, it is Mycroft; all Mycroft. Sherlock is- He's-" She looked down, eyes moist.

John felt himself drowning. But-"There was a sketch on the news. The tall man with dark hair-"

"Mycroft has many agents. Some are tall, some have dark hair. John, I am so, so sorry."

Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone- John closed his eyes. In his mind, he released the last thread that held Sherlock and watched as Sherlock floated indescribably away._ "_Oh, God. Oh my dear, dear God."

Molly came around the bar and sat next to him, laying her hand on his arm.

Gone. His head sank and stayed as the whirling slowed and finally stopped. His cheek on the bar, John was distinctly aware of each minute thing: The warm tea near his forehead; his own heart clenching and relaxing; Molly's hand on his arm. All was clear. He lifted his head and breathed in. The whole experience seemed-somehow- Finished. When he spoke, he was speaking of something done.

"All my symptoms came back. The nightmares, night sweats, hyper vigilance. I couldn't look up at the tops of buildings. I had to change my ring-tone because I would get panic attacks when my mobile rang."

Molly shook her head_._ "Horrible."

"I didn't become an alcoholic, at least. That option is still open to me." A breath in. A breath out. Then-Oh! He sat upright._ "_I did get a job."

"Oh?"

"Emergency room doctor. Just started. It's good, actually, really good. I had forgotten how much I enjoy medicine. Healing people. Yesterday was my first day and I caught this case: Seventeen year old girl with severe abdominal cramps. There'd been an outbreak of food poisoning at her school, but when I saw her, I automatically thought, 'Shrapnel.' Mad, right? Couldn't be shrapnel: No war, no IEDs, no wound! When I looked again, I realized it was because she was holding her lower right side as though there was something there. The pain was localized! Know what it was?" Molly shook her head. "Appendix!"

"Good catch!"

John grinned. "It was this close from bursting. I observed! I inferred! I deduced!" Brilliant!

Beaming, "You saved her life."

"I feel I can breathe again for the first time in weeks. I'm new yet, but it seems to be well run."

"Where are you?"

"London General."

"Oh! I did an internship there. Is Jody still on?"

"Orderly?"

"Yes! He's hilarious! It used to be if you could get him to talk about his cat or his mother- And Barbara!"

"Don't remember a Barbara."

"She was in the morgue. The best people are in the morgue." Molly smiled happily._ "_I should come over; have lunch with you and everyone."

"Would you like to have lunch now? I'm starving."

"I'd love to! Where would you like to go?"

"There's good Ethiopian around here-"

"The place on the corner? Oh, yes!"

"Good!" John was about to stand when a thump sounded from the linen closet. What-? He turned to look. The door opened and Sherlock stepped out.

Sherlock.

As John gazed at the tall figure with the familiar face and grasped that it was, in fact, Sherlock, and that Sherlock had, therefore, faked his death, the implications began heaping up on all sides. John suddenly lost the power of speech and movement, and everything looked and sounded as if it were completely submerged in water. He watched as Sherlock and Molly circled each other, angry. Some words burbled through, although just who was saying them, John couldn't tell.

_"I don't understand why you are angry. You shall have your flat back-all your privacy and cleanliness!"_

_"Why did you wait so long to show yourself?"_

_"You were leaving with him. So jolly! Lunch or some such rubbish."_

_"Lunch is not rubbish!"_

_"There is work to be done-"_

Before he blacked out, John was thinking it couldn't be Sherlock; Sherlock would never have ignored him like this. Right?

"John? John?" Someone was patting his face. Dark…Sick…Dark…Oh. Light. Color. Sherlock. Patting his face. Sherlock. Alive. Alive? Bastard!

"You!" John took a wild swing at Sherlock and missed completely, almost falling off whatever it was he was sitting on. Someone steadied him, guided his head back down and pulled a blanket over him. From between his knees: _"_Do you know what HELL you put me through? I'll kill you!"

"Perhaps I should go-"

"You stay here!" yelled John, looking round to glare at the voice beside him: Molly, who fell silent. After a deep breath, John lifted his head and glowered at Sherlock in front of him. "You bastard. You absolute-"

"John, Moriarty had a gun to your head; yours and Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's. If I had not jumped, his people would have killed all three of you. Afterward, you were still in danger; I had to stay dead. If there had been any other way-!"

John raised his torso half way up._ "_But I saw you fall, Sherlock. I saw you bloody on the ground. I took your pulse-You didn't have a pulse!" The black started swirling again and he dropped his head back down. "How is it you are here?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Well- [Insert your best theory here. As he explained, Molly nipped to the kitchen and brought back a protein bar and John's tea, with lots of milk and sugar. By the end, John was sitting up, well fed and smiling.]

"So you were the tall, dark haired, unshaved man."

"Yes."

"And the bomb threat? And the burnt house?" Brilliant! John felt like singing and dancing! Sherlock!

Sherlock smiled. "Bomb threat, yes. Burnt house, no."

Molly interjected, "Now, this is an excellent topic to discuss over lunch."

"Again with lunch!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can't you see John is in no condition to go anywhere?"

"Actually, I'm feeling much better, now, thank you. Lunch would be-"

Suddenly Sherlock's mobile rang. He answered, "Yes! … She is?" He met Molly's eye. "Oh, hold her there, talk with her! I'll _fly_!" Ending the call, "Elaina's at the bookshop. This is our chance." Both flew into action: Sherlock went to the linen closet; Molly carried John's cup to the sink, collected two protein bars from the box on top of the refrigerator and returned, handing John a bar.

"Come on. This will have to do for lunch."

John was confused but excited. "Elaina?" He stood and dropped the throw on the sofa; no dizziness, excellent!

Sherlock returned, pulling on a hoody and handing Molly a jam jar, which she took to the kitchen. "We'll explain on the way over. Good to have you back, John." Taking John's arm, he guided him to the front door, where they were joined by Molly pulling on her coat. Wait. Molly was coming with them?


	10. There She Goes Again

Tinderbox

Chapter 10: There She Goes Again

_I gotta roll, can't stand still,_

_Got a flaming heart, can't get my fill._

_-Robert Plant _

The cab ride to the bookshop was rather uncomfortable. This was not only because John was crammed in between Sherlock and Molly, but because of the explanation of the case: Sherlock would state some fact; Molly would not exactly contradict it, but augment it in a way that provided a completely different shade of meaning; Sherlock would point out how her interpretation was inaccurate; Molly would maintain that it was in fact accurate, and often as not, would have some argument or bit of evidence to demonstrate her point which was then disputed by Sherlock-and so it would continue. John felt as though his brain, already chewed, was being stretched and pinched in unnatural ways.

The agreed upon facts, as well as he could navigate them, were these:

1. There were three individuals: Colonel Gustav Moran, his wife Muriel and niece Elaina who had lived in a house which was burnt to cover up an attempted murder; the victim then died, making it murder.

2. They all were Czech.

3. They were employed by the criminal underclass as assassins and used hide beetles and a kiln to destroy the evidence of their crimes.

4. The ashes of their victims were stuffed into vases or teddy bears as trophies.

The disputed facts were these:

1. Elaina was either:

-A. a willing participant or

-B. an enslaved victim.

2. Muriel was either:

-A. deeply disturbed or

-B. only somewhat disturbed (both concurred that she was excessively clean, although how pathological cleanliness was was a subject of sore debate).

3. Colonel Moran was either:

-A. very, very clever to carry out his inspiringly difficult and admittedly egregious acts despite the burdensome women in his life or

-B. a monster, callously manipulating the women in his life into doing things they would never dream of doing otherwise, things that were dangerous and illegal or

-C. a man forced to care for said burdensome women (which he did both effectively and thanklessly), women who freely chose to pursue these acts with him-

-D. -Egregious acts-

-E. -yes, killing people and feeding their bodies to insects is generally considered egregious; the point was, the women _freely chose_ to pursue these acts, ergo they must be getting something out of it; all told, they were completely incomprehensible and he was better off alone-

-F. -Yet he didn't hesitate to beg for help-

-G. -Nobody begged! The offer of assistance was entirely unsolicited!-

-H. -to grovel for help that was freely given, despite the significant burden-

-I. -Oh, it was hardly free-

At that point, they arrived at the bookshop. Sherlock instructed the driver to pull up a block away, the three piled out (strangely, John was left with the fare), and the conversation mercifully died away. Striding purposefully ahead of John and Molly, Sherlock was rounding the corner to the front when he almost collided with a young woman with long red hair, heavy make-up, and red nails. Molly pulled John into a side entrance. "It's Elaina!" she hissed. They peered out.

XXXXX

Blocked by the tall man, Elaina gestured impatiently; then caught sight of his face. Wait. She knew-! He stepped around her, and Elaina watched as he hurried into the shop. Who was he? Making her way to her bus stop, Elaina felt her back tensing. This was bad.

XXXXX

Sherlock joined John and Molly in the entryway, and they all peered out at Elaina: She was staring at the bookshop front and frowning. Sherlock glanced at John. "Do you have money? I must follow her and want cab fare."

John sighed. "Mustn't _we_ follow her, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Didn't I say that? But I haven't any money."

Molly pulled a small envelope out of her bag and handed it to Sherlock. "Shouldn't someone get on the bus with her?"

"I can't!" Sherlock crossed his arms, "She's seen me."

Sighing, John intervened. "We have three people, Sherlock."

"Right, then, both of you go. Text me where she gets off, then get off at the next stop." Sherlock peered out again.

"Together?" Molly regarded Sherlock with a tart expression. "Shall I be married to John, then? Do you have the rings?" John stared: Married?

Frowning_. "_No, not together. Molly, you get on at this stop. Talk on your mobile and she'll ignore you. John, you go to the previous stop."

"Where, Sherlock? What bus is it?"

Sherlock glanced at the street signs, then his watch_. "_The A18 Eastbound most likely. It will be at Pike and Ellis in six minutes. Can you make it?"

"I'll do my best." John ran down the street.

XXXXX

On the bus, Elaina watched uneasily as London rolled by, slowly becoming industrial. She had carefully noted the other passengers: The skinny girl chatting on the mobile, the tired looking man in the back; but no one struck her the way the tall man did. Who was he? It had something to do with Jim Moriarty, Uncle's boss who was shot. Moriarty was the one who insisted they use the vases and teddy bears as proof the jobs were done; he had laughed and laughed as he said it, a gun hanging loose in his hand. Sick, that one. She shook her head; must focus. Was the tall man an enforcer? No. He looked odd, thin; not toady enough. Police? No cop would have hair lie that. If he were undercover, he wouldn't be shaved. Then who? She would have to review the newspapers they had saved from Moriarty's death. Elaina sighed and signaled her stop.

XXXXX

Elaina went to a row of identical warehouses, each with double doors large enough for a vehicle to drive through. Sherlock, hiding beside warehouse fifty-two with John and Molly, watched as Elaina turned alongside warehouse fifty-four and entered through the forward side door. As soon as she had gone inside, he led them there. No cameras. Good. "John, do you have your gun?"

"No, of course not."

"Argh." Sherlock stared at the side door. They couldn't come in the front without weapons, Moran could very well be in there.

"You don't have one?"

"It's at the flat."

"What!" Molly was suddenly staring at him. "You have a gun at my flat?"

"It's well hidden."

"Is it loaded?"

"Of course it's loaded. What good is an unloaded gun?"

"All right." John was holding out his hands. "Can we call a truce and come back to the problem at hand? Namely, how are we to get inside?"

Sherlock glanced to the other entry at the back corner. "Down there." He made his way there and examined the door. The lock was easy: Double cylinder grade one deadbolt, old and a bit rusted, but he could probably get it. The problem was the door had no handle.

"Sherlock, there's no handle."

"That's right, John. An insightful observation." Sherlock stepped around to survey the back of the warehouse.

"We would have to go in the front, and that's dangerous." Now Molly was stating the obvious. "Let's call the police."

"Or you could crawl through there." Along the back, two meters off the ground: A row of ventilation grilles; one of them sagged. With some tugging, Sherlock created an opening, twenty by fifty centimeters.

"I? Through there? Sherlock, I can't fit through there."

Sherlock glanced from her to the opening, assessing. "Of course you can. Had you any bust to speak of, we might have had a problem; as it is, you're fine. Just angle yourself in." Handy having someone that size; he could have used her on other cases. He chinned himself up and peered inside: Standard uninsulated warehouse with dim industrial lighting. Nobody visible.

"Fine." Something in Molly's tone made him look over, and he dropped to the ground. She had her arms crossed and her lips were in a tight line: Angry. Now what?

John stepped forward and put his hand on Molly's shoulder. "Sherlock, why don't you try to unlock this door while Molly and I scout around and see if there is another entrance."

There were no other entrances. Still, it would mean quiet. "Excellent idea, John."

"Is it?" Molly's arms remained crossed. "The other side should be the same as that." She nodded at the side of the next warehouse over. "Only one door to the front, and we don't want to go in the front!"

Putting his arm around her and guiding her around the warehouse, John spoke in a low voice. "Yes, but he might not get the door and you don't want to have to go through that hole twice. Let's just let him work in peace." Molly complied, of course. John could always have his way with women. Sherlock turned to the door. Of course he would open it! Of course!

XXXXX

Inside the warehouse, Elaina was eying Auntie Muriel warily: The older woman was scrubbing Uncle Gustav's largest cleaver and muttering; the rest of his collection was gleaming on the table. When Auntie Muriel started cleaning, the world seemed to slip away from her; Elaina could scream in her ear-and did, on occasion-and at best, Auntie Muriel would blink curiously. When coming down from a cleaning high, however, she was aware of everything and often quite mean. Judging by how shiny the knives were, the end was near. Quietly, Elaina went to her cot and slipped the sack of books under her pillow. If she could keep them out of sight, it would save her some grief. Now. The newspapers.

XXXXX

John and Molly were back by the time Sherlock had the lock open. Stiff. Could have used oil.

"No other entrances." John wasn't touching Molly any more, but she looked more relaxed, calmer. Of course.

"Then it is though the mousehole." Sherlock and John lent Molly their palms, and she climbed up and wriggled through. Soon they were in. The warehouse was thirty meters square with six meter high walls. Inside, boxes and equipment were stacked to the rafters on rows of multi-tiered pallet racks.

Sherlock led the others to the front and crouched behind a row: The stink of bleach permeated the area. The meat van was parked in front of the great doors; tucked between the van and the rows was a camp: A sleeping area with two neatly arranged cots, and a third, unmade and apart, encircled by boxes, stuffed bin liners and a full length mirror; next to this, a table where Elaina was rummaging through a box, and an older woman-Muriel-was wiping a cleaver with a cloth; spread on the table were knives, very clean; next to them, the kiln, polished. The walk-in cooler was on the end: The door, latch, and refrigeration unit were intact and the whole had been reinforced; alongside it were three large aquariums full of hide beetles and larvae, and an industrial shelving unit holding vases, a box with a picture of a teddy bear on it, a sewing machine, Mr. Spray Foam canister, assorted tools, a plastic tub, and a laptop. A laptop!

Suddenly, Elaina cried out and held up a newspaper. Both women began speaking rapidly in Czech; one name they repeated sounded vaguely familiar: Chockomes. Muriel stood and snatched the paper. As she stepped to the light, she held the paper so Sherlock could see: A full page picture of him. Oh.

Molly caught her breath- "Sherlock! She recognized you!"

Sherlock pulled John and Molly in closer. "We haven't much time."

XXXXX

Back at camp, Muriel glared at Elaina_. "_Think! Did he follow you?"

"I don't think so."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure!" Elaina cringed as Auntie Muriel opened her mobile. Uncle Gustav would not be happy.


	11. A Great Perturbation of Nature

Tinderbox

Chapter 11: A Great Perturbation of Nature

_Then those Things ran about with big bumps, jumps and kicks_  
_And with hops and big thumps and all kinds of bad tricks._

_-Dr. Seuss_

To get to the empty toilet, Gustav had to start a kilometer away in an abandoned tube spar. A bit of excavation connected the basement with the spar; back stairs led him to a ventilation pipe which dumped him in the toilet. The office block was not of high concern, being out of the range of most rifles, but because Mycroft was paranoid, it was monitored. Gustav was undetected, however, and now stood with his rifle barrel trained out of the narrow window. His thermal sight indicated two bodies sitting across from one another. As he watched, both men stood and shook hands; then one left. Gustav took a deep breath and held it, tensing- His mobile vibrated. Damn! Muriel was a good soldier and would ring him only for an emergency, but it had taken him so long to get this shot! "What? … Sherlock Holmes? She did? Is she sure? … Did he follow her?" He glanced in the scope-Mycroft! At the window!-Then he stepped away, the shot lost. Gustav snorted in frustration. "Okay, I'll come." He closed his mobile and started packing his equipment. Elaina!

XXXXX

When Gustav rang off, Muriel snapped the mobile shut and took up the shining cleaver. She turned to pitiful Elaina: "Come! We shall find Sherlock Holmes."

XXXXX

Crouched behind boxes, Sherlock was ready. When the two passed, he grabbed Muriel's arm and swung her in a circle, knocking her into Elaina; then ran to the side wall and started toward the back. Stage one: Done.

XXXXX

It appeared suddenly-Like thunder!-and threw her to the ground; but it was not Magical, it was a man: That detective! There! Running along the wall to the back! A Terrible One came in an explosion and jabbed Its colossal sword, shrieking words that shook Muriel to the core: Smite! Strike! She rose, grasped her cleaver and flew; the celestial winds driving her to her magnificent purpose!

XXXXX

Ow! Damn! Elaina sprawled. Sherlock Holmes. Damn. Pulling herself up, she jogged after Auntie Muriel.

XXXXX

Pressed behind the next row of boxes, Molly and John watched Elaina go by, then snuck out and headed for the camp. They had five minutes to do their work.

XXXXX

Sherlock approached the back corner at a full sprint, rounded it and continued along the back wall. He could hear them pursuing him: Six meters behind; now seven. At their relative velocities, he should have a nine meter discrepancy soon, which would give him the necessary fifteen seconds of ascension time. Ah! He approached the midpoint. They, well, one of them, had rounded the corner behind him and was now-Oh, good!-ten point five meters behind; she must be tiring. He would round the opposite back corner and progress approximately six meters along that side wall before climbing, which would provide an appropriate visual, yet prevent any interference. When he was clearly inaccessible, his pursuers would return to camp. Hopefully. Also hopefully, John and Molly would be ready. Stage two was almost complete.

XXXXX

Speeding like a true bullet, a kestrel in full dive, Muriel tore along the back wall as he danced before her. When she reached him, the Wrathful One would take her arm and hack him until there was nothing left! The detective rounded the far corner out of sight. With a lightening burst of speed, she rounded the corner after him, lifting her righteous cleaver-and stopped. He was slithering straight up! Already, above her head! The Furious One floated beside him, weeping, waving Its arms helplessly, glowering at her and moaning: GO BACK! Protect their home! Gasping, Muriel turned and ran shamefully, the Magical Ones shunning her as she passed.

XXXXX

Near the corner, Elaina stopped, watching Auntie Muriel in consternation. She was coming back, stumbling and muttering, her face crumpled. What had happened? Elaina stepped to the corner and looked up: Oh, no. That detective had climbed a pallet rack and was swinging onto a rafter! There would be trouble, no matter what happened. Grimacing, Elaina continued forward. She would make the circuit around the warehouse and decide what to do when she reached the front.

XXXXX

One meter between the rafters, each rafter fifteen centimeters across, braces for balance if necessary. Sherlock made his way to the front center. He was impeded by safety concerns; fortunately, the slowness was mitigated by his efficient route.

XXXXX

On the ground, Molly and John were waiting in position when Molly noticed Sherlock leaping from rafter to rafter: A dark clad hop frog, high in the air. Although she was still quite annoyed with him, she couldn't help thinking how graceful he looked.

XXXXX

Following Molly's gaze upwards, John's heart flew into his mouth, and he dropped his eyes quickly. Sherlock had said he would make his way to the front, he had said nothing about this! -Sherlock stepping; Sherlock plunging- John took a deep breath: Back straight and face forward, Watson. Focus on the job. Don't look.

XXXXX

When Sherlock reached the front, he climbed down and got into position behind the van. Stage three: Done.

XXXXX

The Natters were coming. Muriel couldn't see them yet, but she could feel them around her, skulking, oozing; the Magical Ones were gathered in reproving silence. All was not lost; she still had the cleaver. Where was the man? The camp looked empty; but what was this-? The walk-in door! Wide open! The Terrible Ones expanded, singing their war cries. Muriel crept forward, hands tight on the cleaver, and peered in. There! He was inside, looking at her! Snarling, she leapt-

XXXXX

John slammed the walk-in door behind her and latched it as a crash and tinkle of breaking glass sounded from inside. Stepping out from behind the van, Sherlock waved his hands with a flourish: "Abracadabra." Stage four: Done.

XXXXX

At first, it was completely dark. Muriel was afraid and stood perfectly still. When nothing happened, she reached forward and pulled the light string in the center of the ceiling: Elaina's full length mirror was on the ground in front of her, broken. Otherwise, the walk-in was empty; the hooks in the ceiling swaying: A testament to her failure.

XXXXX

From behind boxes, Elaina peered as that skinny girl joined the detective and the tired looking man-Those two had been on the bus! Elaina's stomach clenched; she had led not one but three people right to this camp. Stupid! She hunched more tightly, mind racing: In London, Great Britain, most of Europe, even America, Uncle Gustav or one of his bosses would track her down and make an example. She would go back to prison. Must. What she did in the next few minutes-if she fought convincingly-would determine whether she survived her stay until she could work out some kind of a deal; if she didn't, they would get to her in the holding cells. This had to be good.

XXXXX

In the walk-in, Muriel sank to her knees, the cleaver dropping from her nerveless fingers. The Natters were gathering outside, and no one was there to help her.

XXXXX

Molly took a good look at the camp: Empty. They had the one with the cleaver-Muriel-but what about-? Suddenly, a woman-Elaina!-ran out and jumped on Sherlock's back, gripping him with her legs; one arm around his neck- locked with the other, choking-! He pulled at her, spinning and flailing, but could not- Molly and John flew to help, and the group of them stumbled toward the shelving unit. A vase! Molly seized one and lifted it high-She stopped. John had his hand on her arm; he stepped in front and slipped something-a teddy bear body-over Elaina's head, pulling it tight. Elaina grasped at it and released Sherlock; he lurched away, leaving John and Molly to wrestle her to the ground.

"Get me something to tie her hands!" yelled John, and Molly ran, bringing a handful of stockings from Elaina's cot. Together, they tied her arms and legs, uncovering her face.

"Okay, good." Sherlock was frowning, rubbing his neck. "They always go for the-"

"Good?" Catching his breath, John glared. "You were almost strangled! That was a terrible plan! And what the hell were you doing up there in the rafters?"

"Moving quickly." Sherlock went to the shelving unit and eagerly touched the laptop, then stared at the plastic tub. "Ah! And look!" He lifted down the tub and opened it: Long white bones. Gazing for a moment, Sherlock smiled and took out his mobile.

Face like granite, John crossed his arms. Molly kept her distance.

XXXXX

Inside the walk-in, the first Natters were slinking under the door, soiling the space behind them. Their jabbering made Muriel's head spin and her stomach clench: No! She must-

XXXXX

The sound of something ripping, and John ran with Molly to the walk-in. Molly called out, "Sherlock! She's tearing her clothes! She might hurt herself!"

Sherlock, texting, glanced at them. "We can't open the door. She still has a cleaver."

John stared; then squared his shoulders and spoke in his emergency room doctor voice, "Sherlock, I am going in. Come here. You and Molly stand outside the door to push it closed if she tries anything." Sherlock lowered his mobile with a sigh and came to them. With Sherlock and Molly poised, John opened the latch and peered inside. The light was on and the woman-hair disheveled, face red-was on her hands and knees, muttering and scrubbing the floor with a cloth ripped from the bottom of her shirt. She made no reaction as John reached in and dragged out the cleaver and cracked mirror. Enough madness!


	12. Teasing the Ferryman

Tinderbox

Chapter 12: Teasing the Ferryman

_"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."_  
_"And I to your long life."_

_-Edgar Allan Poe_

Later that afternoon, in front of the Mongoose, old men sat playing chess; young men sat and drank. Sherlock, finally comfortable in his regular clothes, trimmed hair and-Ah!-overcoat, approached a chess game between Pavlov, who according to Mycroft, whispering deep in Sherlock's ear, ran guns through Eastern Europe to gangs in Africa and Ivan, who had a smuggling business in South American and, it was believed, had used Gustav Moran twice in the last month. When Pavlov moved his knight, Sherlock snorted._ "_That was stupid. It was mate in four."

Pavlov looked up slowly and stared at Sherlock, who stared back. Pavlov smiled. "Ah. You know this? Please, show me. I learn from you." Sherlock obliged. Around them, the young men's conversations died.

Knocking over Ivan's king with a neat backhanded flick, Sherlock returned the pieces to their original places. "Now it's mate in six for him-" pointing at Ivan "-if he's clever enough to see it." He stood and walked slowly away. Behind him, he could hear the young men pushing chairs back and gathering themselves together. Good.

XXXXX

At the warehouse, the double doors were open and police were everywhere. Molly and John stood with Detective Inspector Lestrade as Muriel and Elaina were led out in handcuffs. Lestrade shook his head, "So he's back. Should have known he wouldn't stay dead long. Where is he now?"

John answered, "He's running an errand. We've been assured he safe as houses." Molly nodded.

XXXXX

Followed by four henchmen, Sherlock was entering an indeterminate part of town. Three buildings were of particular interest: A squat eight story office block built eighty years ago, currently undergoing renovations; next to that, a newly built but already crumbling residential tower block that, as Sherlock had discovered, contained a precious secret; and, across the street from the office block, Victorian block of mansion flats which he entered. Going to a specific flat on the third story, he opened the window and leaned out, attracting the attention of the henchmen standing obtrusively on the street, all of whom began speaking on their mobiles. Smiling, Sherlock pulled in and drew the blind.

XXXXX

In a comfortable pub, serving warm, simple food, John and Molly were laughing. In front of them were empty plates and half empty pints; John was making quite a hit:_ "-_so there I was, toast in hand. I opened the butter dish and-Oh, God!"

"What?" Molly grinned in anticipation.

"Two cut off fingers like this-" He demonstrated the sign for 'up yours'_ "-_on the dish!"

"Oh, no!" Molly leaned over weakly, giggling, "Not just fingers, but _rude_ fingers in your butter!" After a few seconds, she wiped her eyes. "Did he ever leave footprints on the counters?"

"Yes-"

"-and on the wall?"

"Yes!"

"What was he doing?"

John shook his head. "No idea. I never caught him at it. Once they showed up on the ceiling, and I asked him. I said, 'Sherlock. What is this? Are you trying to be spider man?' He said, 'Of course not.' And went on his way."

"Yes! The way he says those things: 'Of course.' 'Obviously.' 'Simplicity itself.'" Molly started giggling again.

"Or just looks at you." John did his best imitation, causing Molly to dissolve completely.

When they had both recovered a bit, Molly shook her head. "He's the most interesting flat mate I've ever had."

"Yes."

"So he'll be moving out soon, will you be back in with him right away?" John was silent. After a moment, Molly glanced at him. "Oh, I didn't mean to pry-"

"How sad will you be when he goes?"

John watched as she considered her response. Twice, she seemed poised to say something, but held her tongue. Finally, with a tight smile, "He'll be happy to go. Quite happy."

John returned her smile. He understood. "As for my plans, to be honest, I'm not certain. I'll have to think about it." Molly tried to hide her surprise, and John took a sip of beer. "Now," leaning forward, "how is it he ended up with you?"

"Well," she recollected, "it was either out of the country, in a safe house with an agent-that was Mycroft's favorite-or me and my sofa guest bed."

John's eyes lit. "He sleeps on the sofa?"

"Of course." She drank, not meeting his eye.

Smiling disarmingly, "Ah. Hard to imagine little Lord Fauntleroy roughing it on a sofa."

Molly appeared about to laugh but was suddenly somber. She took a deep breath- "Well, he scarcely touched it the first two weeks."

"Why?"

"According to Mycroft, he was following you, obsessively. I think that's why he didn't leave the country. I wouldn't be surprised if he had broken into your flat and watched you sleep." She glanced away and said in a low voice, "He has…personal interest."

"He followed me?" John sat back, contemplating. "Me? He was watching me?"

"He stopped about a month ago. He probably has continued a bit, but not nearly as obsessively. You must have been doing better."

John reflected. "I never…never saw…"

"You wouldn't-" Suddenly both mobiles gave a text alarm: _213 Swanson quickly–SH._

John sighed. She was a decent sort; this had been good. He smiled at her._ "_Glad we got a meal in."

XXXXX

Gustav was on the street, waiting. He was familiar with this area; had done a job not far from here. The site was selected and an entryway prepared; it was merely a matter of locating the target.

XXXXX

The sun had set thirty minutes before and the glow was leaving the sky. As Molly and John approached the office block, John's text alarm rang, and he glanced down_. "_He's asking if we're here." He texted back, and another alarm rang immediately. _"_We are to watch the third floor of the Victorian, eighth window from the right." Both looked up intently.

Molly spotted Sherlock's head first. As they watched, he peered down then pulled in, his silhouette loosely defined behind the blind. He bent out of sight for a second; when his shadow reappeared, he was holding what appeared to be a television remote, which he pointed forward.

_"_And he's watching telly." John sighed for the second time that night. "Shall we go up?" His text alarm rang again. "We are to stay here, he will join us."

In the entryway of the Victorian, a stooped old man in black wool emerged and, leaning heavily on a cane, slowly made his way across the street. When he reached them, he bumped into John, startling him. "Pardon?" The man caught his eye and grinned-Sherlock.

"Follow me." Sherlock led them to the tower block. Around the back, he picked a service door and all ducked inside to the basement laundry room. Sherlock made short work of his disguise: Wig, hat, gloves and false nose; then led them down a dark passageway.

XXXXX

The tower block and the office block next door had extensive basements: Corridors stretching in all directions. While it was never intended that the buildings would be connected, Sherlock had discovered, through Mycroft's blueprints, that the warrens came within centimeters of each other: The thin wall between the closest tunnels had actually been breached by natural settling or an enthusiastic rat. Mycroft was unaware of this breach; Sherlock had chosen not to enlighten him.

Taking a torch from his coat, Sherlock led John and Molly through one labyrinth and into another, ending in the abandoned basement mailroom of the office block. Mycroft's webcams were placed in the entryways, stairwells and the top three stories of the office block; the other stories were patrolled every fifteen minutes: The stairwells were out as a means to reach the higher stories. But the dumbwaiter, which had fallen into disuse, was not. The shaft openings into each floor's utility rooms were hidden by vent covers fastened by screws that easily pulled from the rotten plaster. Earlier that afternoon, Sherlock had located the mailroom, and ascertained that the dumbwaiter car was operational; it was simplicity itself to lead Molly and John in and pull them up. In fact, the biggest challenge was getting everyone off the lift and returning it down without drawing the attention of the patrol guard: The brake had been disabled years ago.

They exited on the fifth floor and walked silently past the tarp covered tools and materials in the dark corridor to a carefully selected office with one window, the only source of light, facing the Victorian; specifically, facing the silhouette of Sherlock watching television, changing the channels, crossing his legs, etc. John turned to Sherlock and whispered, "If you are here, who is that?"

"It isn't real; a high tech manikin, designed-" Suddenly, there was a thump at the door and the sound of the doorknob turning. Molly, John and Sherlock scurried to one side and stood in the shadow against the wall. The door opened, and, carrying his equipment bag, Gustav Moran entered, strode to the window and gazed out. Nodding, he knelt and unzipped his bag, taking out his rifle, tripod, and scope.

There was nothing on Sherlock's earpiece; Mycroft was unaware. How had Moran gotten here undetected? Frantically, Sherlock went over the path they had taken underground: No other footprints, no bricks out of place at the breach; so not that way. He peered through the darkness: Moran had dust, plaster dust, on his legs and upper arms. On his shoes, light brown patches: Dried mud. Everything around here was paved: Sewage pipe? The ones feeding from here would be disused due to the renovation. Okay, so that was most likely how he had entered; how did he get here? Plaster dust. Ventilation system? They had been retro fitting one as part of the renovation. But Moran was not a climber; he could not have come that way. The dumbwaiter. He must have used it to reach the top story, then the ventilation openings to make his way down until he came here-no webcams-using the renovation debris as cover. Okay. So Moran was working his way down while they were coming up: He didn't know they were there; as long as they made no noise, they had the advantage of surprise.

A tremor at his side caused Sherlock to glance over: Molly was rigid, not breathing. Oh. Must- He slowly reached for her elbow. When he made contact, Molly startled and inhaled silently. Good. Sherlock ran his fingers down her arm to her hand. It was clenched, but relaxed when he covered it with his. He glanced at Moran, now fitting his scope into his rifle. Slowly, Sherlock lifted Molly's hand to his mouth, and kissed her first knuckle silently, his eyes on her all the while.

XXXXX

What? Oh. Distracting again-good. Need it. Breathe-quietly!-breathe. Must be calm, think. Please, don't let go. Not-

Pfft! Moran was firing out the window. Pfft! Molly flinched, despite the lack of rifle reports. Releasing her hand, Sherlock drew a pistol and signaled for John to walk with him. They crossed silently behind Moran, scanning the flat with his scope, and Sherlock lifted the pistol to Moran's head. As he cocked it, Moran froze; Sherlock ordered, "Put your hands behind your head."

Through the dim light, Molly could see Moran's hand as it moved ever so slowly-What did he have? Between his thumb and forefinger-! Oh, God-"_Knife!"_

John flew into Moran, knocking him towards Molly. Throwing John into Sherlock, Moran rolled into a crouch, drawing back his knife hand. Instinctively, Molly struck it with a snap kick, sending the knife flying. Moran leapt to his feet and pounded out of the room.

XXXXX

Get him! Go! Go! Sherlock bounded up and ran after Moran, down the corridor, around the corner: The utility room door- Closing-! Sherlock dashed-

"Halt! On your knees! Hands up!" The officer had come running around the corner, his torch and pistol trained on them. "Drop it! Drop it now!"

"He's getting away!" Releasing his pistol, Sherlock sank to his knees.

"Unit five: Request for backup, three intruders-"

"Tell them Sherlock Holmes wants help!" The officer trained his torch directly on Sherlock's face. "That's right! Sherlock Holmes! You may know my brother!"

"Sorry, sir." The officer holstered his pistol. Sherlock jumped and tried the door. Locked!

"The key!"

"Yes sir." When the door was opened, Sherlock rushed in, turning on his torch. Moran was not there. The vent was off the dumbwaiter shaft opening; there was a shelving unit with tools and renovation materials; a doorless, shallow closet holding a few overalls and workmen's shoes and boots; and, under an Emergency Exit sign, a window, wide open.

The four ran to the window. It overlooked the fire escape; five feet away was the fire escape of the tower block next door. No one was in sight.

The officer spoke into his radio. "Unit five requesting assistance. Suspect escaped down the fire escape. Currently believed to be in the alley or in the tower block adjacent." The sound of running footsteps and the flashes of torches came from the corridor behind them as officers responded to the earlier request for backup. Someone lit a floodlight, illuminating the room.

"No." said Sherlock, staring out the window.

"It's all right Sherlock." John lay his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sometimes they get away."

"John, he didn't. He didn't go that way."

"Down the dumbwaiter?"

"The brake was broken, he would have had to pull it up. He didn't have time."

"Then he went out the window. Sherlock-"

"No! I-"Sherlock broke off. Molly was staring at the floor of the closet, specifically at one dark pair of shoes tucked behind the others. She was pale.

Sherlock stepped to her, took her hand and stood with her, watching the closet. "You're right John. He must have gone out window." It was faint; a tiny sigh from a diaphragm that moved the overalls so very slightly. With a slow turn of his head, Sherlock peered in: Yes, the closet extended beyond its opening. Bending, he could just see- "John? Did you know it occurred to me that we could have gone onto the fire escape next door and jumped over here?"

"Did it?"

"Yes. Do you know why I didn't choose that method of entrance?"

"Because jumping around in high places is reckless and idiotic?"

What-? "No. Because it would have made far too much noise. When we were in the corridor just now, did you hear the sound of a large man running down a steel fire escape, or jumping onto one?" Sherlock signaled for the officers to train their weapons on the closet.

"I did not."

"Do you know what is reckless and idiotic?" Sherlock met Molly's eye and nodded for her to join John, then stepped to the floodlight.

"What?" John and Molly withdrew to the corridor.

"Leaving your legs in a closet." He directed the flood to the far side of the closet: Four inches of Moran's dark clad legs revealed above a pair of boots.

"Right!" screamed the officer. "Out! With your hands up!"

XXXXX

Ten minutes later, they were back in the office, now blissfully lit with floodlights and filled with police. Molly and John were watching: Molly had a blanket and was drinking something hot; John was savoring the scene. He had missed this part. When Sherlock joined them, John asked, "So, did he actually shoot anyone?"

"No. It was a manikin with special heat emitters designed to fool the thermal scope. After Moran had been spotted in the area, I looked out the window to establish my location to him and you, sat in the chair and bent down, supposedly to get the remote. When I did that, I actually slipped out of the chair and behind a heat blocking blanket held by an agent in a heat blocking suit, and I was replaced by the manikin. I left the flat, put on the old man disguise and came across the street to you."

"So it was a dummy. But it moved! I saw it move." John glanced at Molly, who nodded.

"Of course it was moving, no one sits perfectly still, even watching the most inane television. The figure was basically a marionette with men controlling the arms and legs, from a distance of course." Sherlock looked out the window. "Here, they are taking it out."

On the ground, Mycroft was supervising the removal of the manikin: A crash-test dummy covered in dull black material with two large holes in its head. Mycroft glared up at their office window.

_"_Perhaps we should take our leave now; I had been asked to stay in the Victorian." Sherlock started to guide them both to the door. _"_John, have you considered taking Turbo Kick Boxing?"


	13. Almost Persuaded

Tinderbox

Chapter 13: Almost Persuaded

_I've given you a decision to make_  
_Things to lose, things to take_

_-Gordon Gano_

Back at the flat, John was drinking tea with Sherlock and Molly. Although Molly's flat was comfortable, it was rather generic and sterile; he found himself missing the friendly mess of 221-B. Perhaps he could go back. Right now, he was fully content.

XXXXX

At the bar, Sherlock took a sip of tea, and waited impatiently for John to begin: John always went to go over more details now. There would be appreciation, admiration even. Glancing at Molly, Sherlock fidgeted slightly. Finally, John spoke: "So you actually had no idea Moran would come to that particular room."

"No. We all thought he would be a few stories above for a downward shot. The plan was to let him make the shot, then to take him in. My plan was to have a front row seat, and that room would have given us the best view."

"Amazing." John turned to Molly. "And you recognized those shoes?"

"Not really, actually. They were odd somehow. And the more I looked at them, the more they were frightening me; I wasn't sure why."

Sherlock hastened to explain: "The pattern of plaster dust on them was different from the other shoes, and they had specks of dried mud: He had been in the sewer pipes. Subtle things but noticeable to the astute observer. On top of all that they were a trigger. The same shoes he wore at the house that night." Another sip. "A helpful trigger." Molly was sitting up a bit taller than usual. She did have a rather elegant neck.

John made a face. "Stupid of him to hide in the closet."

"All he needed was five minutes to retrieve the dumbwaiter. Had that guard been alone, it would have worked. I've done similar things myself."

"And he was going to throw that knife, right?" Molly was glancing between him and John. "Even though you had a pistol."

"Yes, it would have been unexpected. When he lifted his hand near his head, he could flick it behind him." Sherlock demonstrated. "Effective as a gun."

John grinned at Molly. "Nice work, twinkle toes."

Her cheeks glowing, Molly looked down. "Good things happen when I don't think."

Sherlock shook his head. "You think quite well." Gazing, he realized that her hair was almost the exact shade as his violin. Interesting. He glanced at John- Oh- John was staring, holding his tea half way to his mouth. A question? No. He simply drank his tea.

"Thank you, Sherlock. Gentlemen, I am quite tired. Good night." Molly stood.

"Good night, Molly." said Sherlock, and John nodded.

After she left, John faced him. "Sherlock, what was going on back there in the dark?" He kissed his knuckle.

"I was calming her down. She has an adequate mind, but gets these panic things. It's stupid."

"Panic attacks?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, can't move, can't breathe or hyperventilates. She would have given us away. I had to distract her, snap her out of it."

"By kissing her?"

"Simple physiology, John: Touch relieves panic reactions. You could have done the same thing."

"So, you're not-?"

Sherlock waited. When John didn't finish-"Not what?"

"No." Shaking his head, "Of course not. It's good you're not taking advantage."

"Taking advantage?"

John smiled slowly. "She fancies you, Sherlock. Has for years."

"She does?" No. What? No.

"You didn't know? It's quite obvious."

Sherlock stared past John toward Molly's bedroom. No. "No." Returning to John. "You're wrong John. I said something to her this morning and she reacted quite badly. She's not fond of me."

The smile disappeared. "What did you say to her?"

"Nothing! I proved that she was-acceptable by objective standards." Remembering, Sherlock felt his cheeks warm and his heart rate increase. This was a most irritating, inconsistent illness!

"Acceptable?"

"Yes. The panic attacks were interfering with her work."

"You showed she was acceptable, and she reacted badly?"

Sherlock's voice dropped. "Well, not 'acceptable.' Not that word."

"Which word? 'Capable'?"

"'Beautiful.'"

Staring, "'Beautiful'? You told her that she was-"

"I observed. I demonstrated how she met popularly held criteria: Proportional features, even coloration-I was proving a point."

"What point?"

"That I am never subjective. I don't allow personal opinions to- That doesn't matter, what matters was her reaction."

John took a deep breath. "What was her reaction?"

"At first she didn't believe me." Sherlock's stomach was becoming queasy.

"That's no surprise. You usually call her a cow."

"I have never called her a cow."

"Well, not in so many words, but women always have, 'Cow' in the backs of their minds. If you are the least bit critical, or even if you're not complimentary enough, they jump to, 'Cow.' It is safe to say you have never been complimentary with her before now."

Sherlock reflected. "No. But I _was_ complimentary this morning. Objective, but complimentary. And she-" Suddenly it was difficult to talk.

John spoke softly, "What did she do?"

Deep breath. "She cried, John. I don't know how I offended her, but I must have." Cheeks burning, he could not meet John's eye.

"Hold on, back up. You said you were proving a point, that you didn't allow personal opinions to...What? Affect your judgment?"

"To affect my observations." Sherlock nodded.

"Did you tell her that this wasn't your personal opinion?"

"Of course. I told her I had no biases, no personal interest, my observations were pure."

"Ah. Personal interest. Did it occur to you that she might have _wanted_ you to have a personal interest?"

"What?"

"She might have wanted you to be interested in, say, her? Personally? Usually, when one calls another beautiful, it is a reflection of how the observer feels about the other person. The word is inherently subjective; although, not when used by you, apparently."

"What? That-" Sherlock considered it for a bit. Finally, "It's bad science."

"It isn't science at all." John leaned back and grinned. "She was disappointed, nothing more. She still fancies you. Look at the way she looks at you." The smile faded a bit. "You shouldn't encourage her. It's not kind."

"I don't."

"You just told her she thinks well."

"She does think well."

"And you've been kissing her. And you called her beautiful."

"It was to help her function_. _I didn't know." Sherlock crossed his arms.

"To help her function."

"Yes."

"You have no personal interest." John shook his head again, the smile returning.

"None." None? Wait. Sherlock recalled his own physical reactions; that mysterious illness. Good God, the chemistry fit. He looked around John toward Molly's door again. "Women…"

"Not your area."

"Really not my area." She was quiet behind that door. He wondered what she was doing.

"When you first told me that, I thought you were gay."

"Everyone thinks that." Dressed? In bed? Hair loose, bare- Yes. He could vaguely picture it. "But I am not gay. I am not a monk, either. And when I haven't a case-"

"You have appetites."

Something in John's tone had changed. Sherlock glanced: The smile was gone. He tried to explain, "She is respectable, and I-" He fell silent.

"Sherlock. You're not thinking of changing your sofa for her bed, are you?"

"I- No harm in asking." He gazed once again at the door. John was speaking, but –

"Sherlock!" John. Standing. Arms crossed. "If you ask her, she'll say yes, because she's young and stupid and fancies you, but it would be wrong, Sherlock. Wrong." Wrong? Sherlock returned to Molly's door; how could it be- "Very, very, wrong. Wrong!" John stepped directly in front of Sherlock. "You're not boyfriend material!" Sherlock flinched and dropped his gaze.

"I don't want to be her boyfriend," he muttered.

A gasp. "Doesn't she deserve a boyfriend? A proper boyfriend? One who understands her? What would you do Sherlock? Use her for whatever suits you then drop her completely when you have a case."

Sherlock's stare was locked to the floor. "She's all right on a case."

"Oh." Low and harsh. "You would put her in harm's way. Not honorable, but typical of you, Sherlock. You don't care whose life you ruin as long as you're not bored." A pause. "You'll break her heart."

"No."

"And leave her weeping."

"No!"

"She'll hate you in the end."

"She won't!"

"I'm off." John stormed to the entryway. "If you care about her at all; if you like her even a little bit, you'll leave her alone!" He left, slamming the door.

XXXXX

Molly sat up in her bed. There was the door. What were they arguing about? Something about a boyfriend- boyfriend material? Were they breaking up? Did John say he wasn't moving back in? Molly didn't want to go out there, but she and Sherlock were getting along again, and she should offer her support. She pulled her robe on over her nightgown and stepped out of the bedroom.

Sherlock was staring at the front door with an indescribably dark expression. "Sherlock? What happened?" As he turned to her, his features shifted- Molly caught her breath. She knew that look; it was the one she gave to velvet cakes through sweet shop windows. She had never seen it from him; never directed at her. Her heart began to race. And then- He pulled his eyes away, saying something in a voice too quiet to hear. He stood, strode past her, snatched his violin and overcoat, and left.

Oh, no.

XXXXX

Baker Street was quiet in the dark night. A fine mist was blurring the lights, making everything sodden, chilling Sherlock to the bone. As he marched along, the sound of his feet on the pavement forced the memory of John's words into a strange cadence: 'If you _ask_ her, she'll say _yes_, because she's _young_! and _stupid_! and _fancies_ you, but it would be'-at this point he was tempted to stamp- 'Wrong! Wrong! Very, very! Wrong, wrong!'- and to hop with both feet- 'You're Not! Boyfriend! Material!' The words then snaked into a sickening waltz- 'And doesn't she _deserve_ a boyfriend? A _proper_ boyfriend? One who _understands_ her? What would _you _do Sherlock?' –at this point, he would stop. Eventually, gritting his teeth, he would continue walking, and it would start all over: 'If you _ask_ her-' But here, within sight of 221 Baker Street, the rest flooded in: 'Use her for whatever suits you, then drop her completely when you have a case.' Sherlock threw out: 'She's all right on a case.' She was! And then-He took a long shuddering breath- 'Oh! You would put her in harm's way! Not _honorable_, but _typical_ of you, Sherlock.' Sherlock paused. Typical. Typical? What did John mean, 'typical'? Typical was an example of what had happened; Sherlock had never worked with Molly before, only with- 'You don't care _whose_ life you ruin-' Suddenly weak, Sherlock leaned against the entryway of 221 Baker Street '-as long as you're not-' He turned aside, ill. "Ohh-"

XXXXX

In her flat, Mrs. Hudson was watching an old football match. The crowd had just begun to sing when she heard the front door open, someone come inside and mount the stairs. Concerned, she went to the bottom of the staircase and peered up. "Who's that, then?" The figure at the top was tall and dark, wearing an overcoat and holding-Oh God!-a violin! It turned-!

XXXXX

As Sherlock faced Mrs. Hudson, he heard a scream and a thump. He sighed.

The End

Thank you all-This has been tremendous fun! The estimated date of delivery for the sequel, Sweet Fire, is Thursday. Enjoy!

AL-2000


End file.
